


There's Only One Cure

by wright_or_wrong



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: F/M, Tumblr Prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-06 05:53:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4210470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wright_or_wrong/pseuds/wright_or_wrong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of unrelated J/A ficlets based on Tumblr prompts. All of the (mostly) smutty persuasion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Next to the Last True Romantic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Is this okay?" (from thebaddestwolf)

“Is this okay?”

His voice is so soft and low that it’s difficult to hear him, but she thinks that she’d understand what he’s asking from the way he carefully holds himself over her, propped up on his forearms and straining with the effort. It’s like he’s afraid of crushing her, breaking her into pieces that can never be put back together. 

So she nods against the pillow and whispers back, “Yes,” as resolutely as she can manage. 

She also clutches at his shoulders a little harder and raises her knees on either side of his hips to really drive the message home. The mattress shifts beneath them as she moves and he loses his balance, falling so he lands with his body pressed tightly against hers and she can feel every deliciously hard inch of him, even if their clothing mutes the effect a little.

The surprised, almost agonized look on his face is kind of priceless -- later, she’s really going to wish that she whipped out her phone to snap a photo -- but she pulls him down to seal her mouth over his so he doesn’t have too much time to think. It’s nothing like the sweet, tentative kiss that they shared earlier in the study room -- she nips at his bottom lip and slides her tongue against his with the kind of purpose that can’t be mistaken for anything but certainty. 

And maybe it works because when she drags her bare foot up the back of his leg, over the rough material of his jeans, he rocks his hips against hers almost desperately, and she is pretty sure that she’s never felt so turned on in her life, lit up from the inside out, like the liquid heat that’s building between her thighs is spreading like a fever through her entire body.

That’s before his fingers even start to toy with the hem of her shirt where it’s come loose from her pants and then skate beneath the fabric, drifting over her stomach just above her waistband slowly and gently. Her skin is practically buzzing now, but it’s still not enough. He must be reading her mind, though, because he slides his fingers up, over her ribs, until they’re just grazing the edge of her bra, and she moans into his mouth, tugging at his sweater so hard that she snags a nail.

Jeff pulls away, panting heavily as he studies her face. 

“Okay?” he asks again.

She nods frantically, fingers still tangled in the soft cotton of his sweater, and he must believe her because then he’s cupping her breast over her bra -- and the lace may be thin, but she wants to feel his skin on hers, the slightly rough texture at his fingertips that makes her shiver. She doesn’t have much room to maneuver, but she’s able to drag his sweater up a few more inches over his back and rake her nails over the warm, smooth muscles where he’s already sweating even though they’ve barely moved. His fingers tighten around her breast almost like an involuntary reflex, and he rolls his hips hard against her too, pressing her even deeper into the bed. His erection slides perfectly between her thighs, but his jeans and her pants are too thick to provide the kind of satisfaction that either of them wants -- and she whines out her frustration, low and deep in her throat. 

Jeff freezes, his brow furrowed in concern.

“You all right?”

“Yeah...but… I need…” She reaches up and covers his hand with her own, coaxing him into squeezing her breast again. He gets the pressure just right, and she rocks her hips up against his, feeling increasingly desperate.

“Annie,” he moans into her neck. “Oh, God…”

He kisses his way along her jaw and somehow manages to tug the cup of her bra down under her shirt and then he’s rubbing his thumb against her nipple and a gasp dies in her throat, weak and strangled, because the feeling is just too good, nothing that she could ever recreate all those nights alone in the dark, touching herself and pretending it was him. It sends a spark straight between her thighs and she thrusts up against him like maybe she can fuck him right through their pants.

But he hesitates again, going almost completely still.

“Are you --”

“Jeff,” she practically cries, because she’s becoming unbearably horny and impatient and more frustrated with each passing moment. “I’m okay. I’m fine. Better than that even...” 

He still doesn’t seem convinced, though, scanning her face for any sign that she might not be sure, and the hesitation is more than she can handle right now, so she pushes him off her and sits up against the pillows, reaching up to start unbuttoning her shirt herself. 

She keeps her eyes on him the entire time, and he’s trying valiantly to meet her gaze but he can’t seem to stop himself from looking down at her fingers, working slowly and steadily to undo her top, cast it aside, and reach behind her to unfasten her bra. When she tosses the flimsy lace aside and throws her shoulders back, practically begging him to look, his expression is nothing short of awed, like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

“Annie,” he breathes out, almost reverently. His fingers twitch against his knee, as if he’s dying to touch her but isn’t certain that he should. “I just want you to be sure about this…”

She takes his hand again, pressing it to the center of her chest where her heart beats wildly.

“You don’t have to hold back,” she whispers. “I want this. I want *you*. And I’m not going to regret it…”

He huffs out a disbelieving sound that’s a cross between a sigh and a laugh, but something must get through to him finally, because he crawls over her again, sliding her down until she’s under him once more and when she looks up, he’s the only thing that she sees.

When he kisses her now, it’s hard and unrelenting, the way she suspects he’s wanted to all night. He nips his way along her jaw and down her neck and before she even realizes what’s happening, he’s nuzzling her breast, circling the nipple with his tongue and using his teeth in just the right way, until she’s yanking his sweater off in a hurry, getting it stuck over his head for a moment so he’s temporarily blinded and they wind up laughing together as they try to untangle him. 

Somehow, they both manage to get out of their pants, and his erection is hot and hard against her thigh, as impatient as she is -- because it’s been six long years of foreplay and she’s more than ready for the main event. 

Jeff apparently agree because he curls a couple of fingers inside her, making her hips jump against his, and then he’s rolling on a condom and pushing inside her. She holds her breath, while his goes all shallow and thready, but they both look down to watch him enter her, and when he finally slides home, they groan together, her breasts rubbing against his bare chest -- and it’s everything that she’s always wanted and didn’t even know how to describe.

“Okay?” he asks, and maybe he’s teasing a little bit or maybe he’s mostly serious, but she glares up at him, hiking her legs higher on his hips, opening herself even further so he’s deeper inside her, and she whimpers in a broken way that would be embarrassing if she wasn’t halfway to delirium. 

And that’s before he even starts moving.

He rocks into her slow and steady, like he’s content to do it forever, and she digs her fingers into his shoulders, scratching at his soft skin roughly -- but that only seems to spur him on because he thrusts even harder and faster, and her toes curl against his back and then she can’t hear anything over the ringing in her ears and she can’t see anything beyond the white-hot light bursting behind her eyes and her entire body is weightless and boneless, like she’s floating off into the ether. 

When she comes back to herself, he’s fallen on top of her in a heavy, sweaty heap. She tries to catch her breath, but she feels a little dizzy so it’s difficult. She can feel Jeff’s heart pounding like a drum against her chest, and for a second, she almost wonders if he’s having some kind of attack and tries to imagine how she’d explain that she killed him to all of their friends. 

But then he stirs, pressing his mouth to the side of her throat and twisting a strand of her hair through his fingers. She rubs at his back, massaging the space between his shoulder blades.

“Still want to know if I’m okay?” she asks cheekily. 

He groans out a laugh. “I might. If I could even manage to remember my own name.”

“If it helps, I think I was yelling it pretty loudly a minute ago,” she says. “But I can’t be certain because I’m pretty sure I blacked out.”

He pushes back up onto his forearms, taking some of his weight off of her, and smiles. He definitely looks worn out, though, and maybe even a little overwhelmed.

She understands because it’s the same for her.

“Still no regrets?” he asks, and he’s trying to keep his tone light, trying to make a joke out of it, but she can feel the sincerity that he wants desperately to hide.

She cups his cheek, smiling softly up at him. “Not a single one.”

When she kisses him then, she thinks he might believe her.


	2. I've Only Been Laughin' Ever Since I Fell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Don't you dare stop!" from thebaddestwolf and an anon

At this point, he doesn’t really care if it makes him an insensitive bastard -- he is sick and fucking tired of talking about dead cats. 

That’s his primary thought as he ushers Annie into his apartment, and sure, that makes him a pretty shitty friend but he’s been pushed to the damn limits. Because it’s bad enough that he had to spend most of his night listening to Britta sob over her dead pet, but now she’s even managed to derail his plans to salvage the rest of the evening with Annie.

Well, if the fact that Annie hasn’t been able to stop going on and on about how awful she feels for Britta the entire trip back to his place and is now hunkered down on his couch with a little notepad that she whipped out of some hidden pocket to start jotting down ideas about how exactly they can help their friend through this difficult time is any indication anyway -- the night is imploding right before his eyes.

“I think a memorial service would really help Britta say goodbye,” he hears Annie say as he heads to the kitchen for a bottle of wine (He’ll get the damn mood back on track at any cost -- even if he has to bust out scented candles, silk sheets, and a freaking Barry White playlist). “She’s having Chester cremated so maybe we could plan something to scatter his ashes. Oh, but maybe she’ll want to keep them. You know, in an urn or something…”

He makes a humming sound that he hopes makes it seem like he’s at least somewhat invested in cat funeral plans as he uncorks the wine and pours them each a glass. It’s not that he doesn’t have any sympathy for Britta -- hell, he remembers how much it sucked when Rosie died; he was a very mature, cynical 15 years old at the time, but he still cried like a baby on his mother’s shoulder in the vet’s waiting room -- but because she always insists on adopting the neediest, frailest, most pathetic critters at the shelter, this is the third cat that she’s lost in four years so she’s got to be somewhat used to it by now. 

Besides, she’s still got the two other ones (Matilda, who hisses at him venomously if he so much as looks her way; and Basil, who he’s pretty sure hasn’t moved off the brown and orange plaid pillow on the futon at all over the past year), so it’s not like she’s all alone now. 

It’s really not that bad.

Okay, so maybe he’s trying to downplay the whole thing just a bit, because honestly -- and he knows how selfish this sounds, but he just can’t bring himself to give a fuck -- the real problem is that between her graduate classes and full-time job, quality time with Annie is as rare as Halley’s fucking comet these days and she promised him that this weekend was going to be all his. Now, his Friday night hasn’t even gotten off the ground because a 17-year-old cat inevitably gave into the rigors of old age. 

It isn’t fucking fair.

“But even if she doesn’t want to spread his ashes,” Annie continues as he brings over the wine. “We could still do a memorial service. Maybe make one of those memory boards with a bunch of photos like they do at funerals…”

She scribbles something on her pad, but manages to blindly take a glass of wine from him. He sits beside her, tossing the pillow between them out of the way, though she doesn’t seem to notice as she adds a few more lines to her growing list. It’s getting fucking ridiculous really (because seriously, how is she writing a damn novel’s worth of details about a feline memorial service?!), but he really doesn’t mean to sigh as loudly as he does, because he’s got some pride after all -- though maybe it’s actually a good thing because it gets her to finally take a sip from her glass and look up at him.

“That sounds nice, right?” she asks.

He nods. “Sure. But maybe Britta doesn’t want such a big deal made over it…”

“And maybe we can have Abed give a little speech over Skype,” she continues, as if she hasn’t heard him. “He and Chester had a very complex but meaningful relationship. It would mean a lot to Britta.”

“Okay,” Jeff says, setting his glass down on the coffee table. “That’s probably a good idea then. But you know, maybe we can take a break from the pet funeral planning for just a minute. You’ve had a long week and I’ve had a long week so …”

She tilts her head, like she’s considering his words very carefully, and he thinks that maybe he should have tried a little harder, come up with one of those Winger speeches that’s persuasive enough to get an Eskimo to buy a block of ice -- “It’s been a long week” is pretty fucking lame by his standards. She must decide that he’s right, though, because she leans back against the cushions, clutching the glass of wine to her chest, and sighs. Her notepad and pen still rest in her lap, but it’s a good first step. 

And really the thing is, he’s not being entirely selfish. Sure, he’s looking to get laid (he defies anyone who’s ever had sex with Annie Edison to tell him it’s not completely life-altering and addictive, though then he’d have to slug said person because the idea of anyone else sleeping with her is more than enough to bring his inner caveman out to play) but he also knows how tense she’s been lately, how hard she’s been working, because she’s always going a hundred miles a minute, worrying about her classes and cases at work and what’s going on with her friends, and it’s just too easy for her to forget to stop every now and then to catch her breath. 

(And nine days is way too long for them to go without having sex. That’s just basic math.)

So he slides a little closer, winding an arm around her, and she leans in and rests her head against his shoulder. She takes another sip of wine and exhales heavily.

“This is nice,” she murmurs.

See, he thinks to himself. She needs this just as much as he does. 

So he takes her wine from her to set it on the table and scoots down a little so he can press a soft kiss to her jaw -- and it’s like she was just waiting for him to do it because she sighs again and tips her head back against the sofa, giving him more room to work with. He moves his mouth over her neck, feeling her pulse beat frantically against his lips, and her hand falls to his knee, her fingers gripping the bunched material of his jeans. 

“Jeff,” she practically purrs -- and he’s seriously ready to pat himself on the back for getting the night back on track in what has to be record time. He’s just amazing that way. 

“Annie...” He nuzzles at her collar bone. “What’s--”

“Do you think we should have left Britta alone in the apartment? I probably should have stayed … just in case.” 

He muffles his groan in the curve of her neck, trying to reign in his frustration. “Annie, you let her cry all over your shoulder for hours. I don’t know know how much more you could do.”

“And she did say she wanted some time alone with Basil and Matilda...”

He lifts his head, nodding solemnly -- and he gets the distinct impression that she was hoping that he would talk her into this because she cups his cheek and covers his mouth with hers. He sinks into the kiss, dragging his tongue along her lower lip until she opens her mouth and the world narrows to the points where they’re touching. He drops a hand to the small of her back and she arches against him, her breasts pressing heavily against his chest even through several layers of clothing. It’s easily the best thing he’s felt in days, and she seems to agree, if the way she wraps herself around him, all urgent and needy, is any indication.

Somehow, he manages to tear himself away from her tempting, hungry mouth, and nips and nuzzles his way across her throat instead, loving the way his stubble leaves her skin all pink and glow-y. She clutches at the collar of his shirt, nearly choking him, and he manages to undo the first couple of buttons on hers, so he can just barely see the lacy purple edge of her bra peeking out beneath the pale fabric. He really doesn’t mean to rut against her mindlessly like some horny teenager, but his hard-on might just slide against her thigh a little, so he can get a small taste of the friction that he so desperately wants. 

She trembles against him, her fingers tangling in his hair.

“Jeff,” she moans, all breathless and needy, and now it really sounds like the night is back on track, only four or so hours later than scheduled. “Do you…”

“Yeah?” he says a little frantically. “What?”

Her hand slide down his neck to his shoulder. “Should we really be doing this now? I mean, Britta’s lost a loved one and we’re here, fooling around like … I don’t know. Are we being disrespectful?”

And that’s it -- he’s ready to lose it completely. This isn’t even a little bit funny any more. It may even be worse than the night he got cock-blocked by the Dean’s insistence that he couldn’t possibly decide between the polka-dotted and striped shower curtains without Jeff and Annie both explaining which one they liked best and why. 

That was a nightmare -- and took nearly an hour and a half -- but this is quickly blowing past it.

“Annie, come on,” he groans, slumping back against the couch in defeat. “You promised me an entire weekend, just you and me... but I went and listened to Britta eulogize Chester for almost four straight hours without complaining. Just because you asked.”

Annie cocks her head, clearly unimpressed. 

“You might not have said a word, but your face was issuing a pretty vigorous complaint all night.”

“What do you expect?” He throws his hands up. “It’s been nine days, Annie. *Nine.* I miss you. I miss this…”

He leans in and gently kisses the corner of her mouth, trying to take things as slow as he can. She makes a dreamy, little sighing sound, though, and turns her head, catching his bottom lip between her teeth. He tries to concentrate solely on kissing her again, licking his way into her mouth and tasting her sweet breath, but he can’t resist curling a hand over her knee and sliding his fingers beneath the tight fabric of her skirt, up toward the silky soft skin of her inner thighs. She shivers, even though she’s radiating pure heat, and her hand falls to his thigh, squeezing for all she’s worth.

“Oh, maybe...” she whispers haltingly against his cheek. “Maybe we should…”

He slows his fingers, letting them barely inch up her thigh, and waits for her to finish her thought.

“Make a donation to a shelter in Chester’s name,” she says. “Britta would love that…”

His first instinct is to moan in frustration again -- because come the fuck on; it’s enough about the damn cat, especially when he’s bringing his fucking A-game -- but that’s too predictable. So instead he doubles his efforts, going in for the kill -- he lets his fingers graze the lacy material of her underwear, where she’s even hotter, but that small touch hits her like a bolt of lightning and her hips jump and her head falls back against her sofa and she clutches uselessly at his jeans. 

And that’s before he manages to slip most of his hand inside her panties and her thighs fall open as much as the restrictive material of her skirt allows. She’s already wet and he finds her clit even without much room to maneuver (which, he admits, really isn’t that impressive; he knows her body like the back of his hand now, even that tiny cluster of freckles at her left hip that’s shaped like a tulip) and she gasps, wraps a hand around his wrist to keep him in place. 

“Oh, God… Jeff, that’s…”

It’s good, he thinks, but not really enough, so he curls a couple of fingers inside her and keeps his thumb pressed to her clit, and that’s the magic combination because she starts driving her hips up against his hand like she can’t really control herself, even planting a foot against the edge of the coffee table to give herself better leverage. 

He fucks her slow and deep, the way she likes it best, and he keeps his eyes on her face, completely focused on the way her lashes flutter and her teeth bite at her lip and her cheeks flush and her hairline glows with sweat. It’s everything that he wanted to see when the night started -- but he realizes there’s a way to make it even better.

“Hey,” he whispers, not bothering to hide his smirk, and Annie tries (and fails) to open her eyes and look at him him. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not appropriate to do this right now.” He slows the movement of his fingers inside her until they’re completely still. “Maybe I should stop and you can--”

Her nails dig into the tender skin of his wrist, hard enough to leave little half-moon marks, and she shakes her head furiously against the couch cushion.

“Don’t you dare stop!”

She grits it so emphatically, so commandingly, that it’s easy to believe she’s prepared to murder him and hide the body so she’ll never be found out if he doesn’t cooperate. He laughs a little, but starts moving his fingers again. This time, she closes her legs around his hand, trapping it in place, even as she moves with him at the pace he’s set. She’s so hot and slick against his fingers, like she’s melting around him, and then she scoots down on the sofa so he can reach a little deeper, to that perfect spot that makes her unravel faster than one of the Dean’s well-practiced costume changes. And her entire body tenses and she tightens around his fingers as she scratches her nails against the sofa and cries out, all throaty and deep, right beside his ear.

And all he can think is that it was worth the wait.

She slumps against him and he gently removes his hand from between her thighs. She smiles sleepily, patting at his thigh.

“I really needed that,” she tells him.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!”

She sighs and shakes her head. “Jeff, it’s not like Britta--”

“Hey,” he says, cutting her off. “If I promise to make a donation to every cat rescue within a 25-mile radius and weave a funeral wreath for Chester tomorrow, can we not talk about it for the rest of the night?”

She smiles, but it’s a little worn out. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just… I miss you,” he says again. “We don’t get to see each that much these days and I just wanted a little quality time with you. It’s not like--”

“I get it,” she whispers. “I really do. I know I’ve been MIA lately… and I think that’s why I’m overcompensating with Britta. I feel like I haven’t been around for her either and I just wanted to try to make it up to her. Especially when she’s so sad.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Okay. Sure. That makes sense.” He shrugs. “But I hope that doesn’t mean I have to get a pet and hope it dies to have you overcompensate with me.” 

She laughs a little, trailing her hand over his thigh. “I don’t think you have to go that far.”

She leans her head against his shoulder then,and he rests his cheek against the top of her hair, drinking in the warm, rich scent of her. It relaxes and excites him all at the same time, which is a confusing, exhilarating feeling he’d never experienced before Annie. 

“Seriously, though,” he says. “You’re working hard and we all understand that. So you shouldn’t feel bad.”

She lifts her head, grinning up at him in that smart, maddening way of hers. “Oh, I know,” she declares. “Especially not when I’m about to make it up to you in a big way.”

She grabs his hand and tugs him off the couch, dragging him toward the bedroom with determination. 

And now it’s actually official, he thinks. The mood is definitely back on track. 

No Barry White necessary.


	3. Like It's Never Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Well, I'm not going to stop you if that's what you want to do." from itsoneofthemuses

It’s that long, dreary part of the afternoon when boredom always hits him hardest, when he’s played on his phone as much as he can stand, when he’s googled the fall menswear lines for the umpteenth time, and he’s starting to think about the bottle of scotch in his bottom left desk drawer and how satisfying it would be to fill his coffee mug with it. 

But Annie keeps telling him that boredom isn’t a good enough reason to drink, and she’s probably right, so he props his feet up on his desk, tilts his head back, and stares up at the water-stained ceiling, trying to make a game out of counting the nearly microscopic dots on each tile. 

He makes it halfway through the first tile three times, but keeps losing count right around 37. He's stopped from starting a fourth count, though, when there’s a knock at his door. Normally, he’d welcome the distraction, but he knows that it’s probably either the Dean, wanting to model a new costume, or Frankie, wanting him to do some sort of actual work -- and sadly, neither option really trumps the tile-counting game. 

So he can’t believe his luck when Annie pokes her head inside and his entire afternoon starts to seriously look up.

It’s not unusual for her to stop by unannounced -- the Greendale Crime Lab where she’s working is only a stone’s throw from campus so she’ll pop by on her lunch break sometimes to vent about her asshole co-worker or gush about some breakthrough in a case she’s working on or panic about some project in her Master’s program that she’s certain she won’t have time to finish. Today, though, she told him that she was taking the day off to run some errands so he’s definitely not expecting her. 

It’s the best kind of surprise.

“You busy?” she asks as she pushes the door open.

He smirks. “Seriously, Annie? What do you think?”

She smiles softly and toys with the sash at her waist, and it occurs to him that she’s wearing a smart, little gray trench coat that he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her in before. Her legs are bare all the way up the hem, which doesn’t make it quite to her knees, but she’s got on the black heels that she usually wears to work so maybe she decided to go into the lab after all.

But upon closer inspection, her hair’s a lot wavier and messier than her usual 9-to-5 style and her lipstick looks a little darker too. Something’s a little off.

“Good,” she says briskly. “Because I have something urgent to discuss with you.” 

She turns and locks the door behind her, and that’s all it takes to get him panicking. 

Maybe she’s got another internship all the way across the country. Or maybe it’s a full-time job this time, halfway around the world. Jesus, maybe she’s pregnant -- they’re really fucked if that’s the case because they don’t really have enough money for good daycare and Annie can’t exactly be carrying a baby around on her hip while she’s sleuthing at the lab or doing her graduate work at UC Denver, which means he’s going to have to bring the poor kid with him to Greendale. 

And that's the kind of trauma that would definitely stay with a kid.

Whatever bomb she’s about to drop, it’s got to be something pretty serious because her expression is as solemn as they come. She steps up to his desk and he drops his feet to the floor, as if sitting up straight will better prepare him for whatever it is he’s about to hear.

But instead of speaking, Annie just reaches for the belt on her trench, tugging it loose so the coat falls open around her -- and instead of a smart, little conservative suit, she’s wearing nothing but the laciest, blackest bra and panties set that he’s ever seen in his life. 

“Um…” is all he can manage as he stares at her because his brain has pretty much short-circuited at the sight of her in the tiniest lingerie in the world. The bra pushes her breasts up and out, and they don’t need any help in the looking fan-fucking-tastic department, but he has to admire its effort.

“See?” she says, with a sly smile. “This obviously can’t wait.”

She boosts herself up on his desk right in front of him, not caring about the meager pile of paperwork that she disturbs, and for a minute, he wonders if maybe he hit the scotch in the bottom drawer and this is all some amazing alcohol-induced wet dream. But then Annie hooks her foot under his seat, rolling him and the chair closer, and his hands automatically fall to her thighs, his thumbs stroking gently against her warm skin, and it’s as real as it fucking gets. 

She scratches her fingers over his hair and he tugs her hips a little closer, and then she’s sliding into his lap and licking her way into his mouth as she shifts purposefully against him.

If he was bored before, he’s definitely not anymore.

His hands slip beneath her coat so he can get at the bare skin at her back, and she presses even closer to him, panting against his mouth. It’s not like he doesn’t know where this is all headed, but when her fingers start pulling at his fly and then his jeans are open and her hand slides beneath the elastic of his underwear, they’re quickly reaching the point of no return.

“Annie,” he somehow manages between groans while her teeth toy with his earlobe and her fingers curl around his cock inside his boxer briefs. “Are we really gonna do this now? Here?”

She lifts her head and grins, giving him a teasing squeeze.“You certainly seem ready.”

He laughs breathlessly, because, duh -- but he wraps a hand around her wrist, trying to slow her down a bit. “Yeah, but… I mean, this is Greendale. And the place I work. Is this really a good idea?”

Annie frowns, going almost completely still, and before he can do any damage control, she’s sliding off his lap so she towers over him for once. She drops her hands to her hips, pushing her coat back so he has even better view of her ridiculously hot body in that ridiculously hot underwear and it’s distracting, sure, but Annie Edison is the only woman he knows who could still manage to look completely intimidating even in the world’s sexiest underwear. He tries to sit up a little straighter, though it’s tough considering he’s got a hard-on the size of Texas at the moment.

“*You* said you fantasize about this,” she accuses. “Doing it in your office, on your desk, during the school day. You just told me last week!”

“Well, yeah,” he says. “I do. Conservatively speaking, at least once a day, but…”

She nods, tapping her foot a little impatiently. “Okay, fine. So…”

“You really want to do this when the Dean could come knocking or Garrett could have an asthma attack just outside the door at any moment?”

“No, Jeff,” she mutters. “I came here dressed like this because I was hoping you’d talk me out of it.” She rolls her eyes in that superior way that she has, but even that’s ridiculously hot considering her attire. “Yes, I really want to do this. Right here. Right now.”

She’s completely serious, completely sure, and fuck, why is he even trying to talk her out of this? His dick definitely doesn’t know and his brain doesn’t seem willing to help out either. 

“Okay, well, I’m not going to stop you,” he says magnanimously. “If that’s what you want to do.”

Annie nods briskly.“That’s what I thought.”

She shrugs out of her coat so it falls to the floor, and his fantasies have nothing on reality because he wasn’t creative enough to imagine her in nothing but these kinds of lacy underthings in his head. That thinking distracts him long enough that he’s not prepared when she reaches for his hand and pulls him out of the chair -- and then before he even realizes what’s happening, he’s flat on his back on his desk, knocking his coffee mug on its side and a box of paperclips and pushpins scattering to the floor. 

It’s hard to care much about the mess, though, because a second later, Annie’s straddling his lap, pulling his jeans open again and lowering the waistband of his briefs. She’s got one hand curled around his dick, while the other one slides under his shirt so she can trace her fingertips over his stomach and ribs, and even scratch a little at his nipple so while she kisses him, he’s moaning pretty much non-stop. His skin feels like it’s on fire and he can’t catch his breath and he’s not even inside her yet.

And then she rears back a little and tugs a condom out of her bra, and it’s seriously one of the hottest things he’s ever seen -- and she knows it too because she’s grinning as she leans in to kiss him again. 

It still amazes him that Annie manages to kiss in exactly the same way that she does everything else -- with passion and determination and confidence and a kind of hopefulness that leaves him feeling inadequate most days. Now, with her hair falling over his face and her body rubbing against his, he just feels stupidly lucky. 

Especially when she lifts her head and pins him with a sultry gaze.

“Off or on?” she asks.

His brain is barely working, what will all of his blood currently being located in his dick, so all he can muster is, “Huh?”

She rises to her knees, settling herself on his thighs, and plucks at the lacy strap of her bra. “Off,” she says, sliding it down her shoulder a bit. “Or on…” She bounces a little so her breasts threaten to spill out of the barely-there lace. 

“Oh… um…” He glances back at the door, just to make sure it’s still firmly closed and locked. “Off.”

She reaches behind her to unhook her bra, and he tries to make himself useful by rolling on the condom -- though that’s easier said than done because Annie lets the straps of bra fall off her shoulders but holds the cups in place over her breasts, teasing him with a know-it-all smirk for a long, agonizing moment, until she finally lets the lace fall away, so damn slowly that it has to be some kind of torture forbidden by the Geneva Conventions, and then he’s face to face with her bare breasts, their full curves and creamy vanilla skin and rosy nipples -- and seriously, real!Annie outclasses fantasy!Annie in every fucking category of everything.

He pushes himself upright to get a taste, cupping his hand around a breast and running his tongue across the tip. She must really like it too, because she nearly loses her balance, tossing her head back and wrapping her arms around his neck to steady herself. 

And then she’s hooking a finger in the crotch of her panties to pull them aside and sinking down over him so fast and deep that he falls back against the desk, sending some tests he’s still hasn’t graded flying through the air like paper airplanes. 

“Shit,” he groans. “Give a guy a little warning, huh?”

It’s all very funny to Annie, though, who giggles as she peppers his jaw with open-mouthed kisses. She starts moving slowly, just rotating her hips like she wants to tease them both, and he clutches at her waist with a white-knuckled grip, trying to get her to really fuck him. Her breasts are bouncing in the best possible way, but he still needs her to go a little faster. 

“You’re not this cruel in my fantasies,” he pants.

She shakes her head, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I just want it to last,” she whispers. 

That’s a nice idea, but he doesn’t really have that kind of patience. So he reaches between her legs, slipping his fingers inside her panties, and somehow manages to find her clit. He presses his thumb against it just the way she likes, and she jerks to life, rising and falling back down on his cock like she suddenly can’t control herself.

“Jeff,” she whines, wrapping her fingers around his wrist to try to knock his hand away. “Oh, God…”

His breath stutters out of him as she starts to move in earnest, but he manages a smile. “Whose fantasy are we acting out again?”

She shakes her head, eyes closed, but her hand moves away from his wrist and settles on his stomach as she starts to ride him into oblivion. It usually doesn’t take long for her to come when she’s on top, but he keeps his thumb moving against her, hedging his bets a little because he really doesn’t think he can last much longer.

And then she freezes, clawing at his shoulders and tightening around him like a damn vise. She moans loud enough that he thinks they must hear her down in Hawley’s Science of Superheros class, but the grunting sounds he makes when he comes barely a minute later are even more embarrassing so he’s not about to say a word.

She collapses on his chest, and they’re both breathing hard, but when they look at each other, they start laughing a little too, until they’re practically wheezing.

“I’m not the kind of guy who looks a gift horse in the mouth,” he says. “But what the hell did I do to deserve this? Because I’d like to do it again… as soon as possible.”

She smiles, but tucks her flushed face into the curve of his shoulder and mumbles something incomprehensible into his neck. 

“Excuse me?” he prods.

She lifts her head, her cheeks still a little red. “It’s the anniversary…”

“Anniversary of what?” he asks. 

She avoids his gaze, plucking at his shirt absently. “It’s six months since I came back from D.C.”

“Oh,” he says. “Right…” And immediately he feels like an asshole -- was he supposed to get her a gift or something? Only six months in and he’s already fucking things up. “It’s just… you know I didn’t know if we’d celebrate that or the night in the study room before you left or the next day when we finally…”

She smiles softly and pats at his shoulder. “It’s fine, Jeff. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it or anything. But it seemed like we should do something to mark the occasion.”

He smirks. “That was *something* all right.”

“But you know,” she drawls, sliding her hand over his chest. “I’m absolutely starving now… so if you wanted to take me to dinner, I wouldn’t object.”

“That sounds like a really good--”

There’s a knock at the door then, and they both go rigid, holding their breath in the hopes that whoever it is will go away.

No such luck, though, because there’s a second and a third knock almost immediately.

“Yoo hoo, Jeffrey! Do you have a minute?”

Annie’s eyes widen comically and she inanely mouths, “The Dean!”, just before jumping off of him. She frantically grabs for her bra, hanging on the rim of his trashcan, and somehow, he manages to lurch to his feet, clean himself up, and zip his jeans.

“Just a second, Dean,” he calls through the door.

He helps Annie into her coat, which she ties closed so tightly that it’s a wonder she hasn’t cut off her circulation. She tries to smooth her hair into place too, but it’s got a decidedly sexed-up look that he doesn’t think she’s going to get rid of any time soon. 

He waits until she’s caught her breath a little and positioned herself in one the chairs opposite his desk in a painfully casual pose before he opens the door. The Dean eyes looks him with concern.

“Is everything alright? It took you…” He trails off when he sees that they aren’t alone. “Annie! What are you doing here?” He breaks out in a wide smile. “It’s not everyday that one of our most successful alumni visits...”

“Actually,” Jeff says, moving to stand beside her. “It kind of is. She’s here a lot.”

Annie reaches up to smack at his arm. “Dean, it’s good to see you. I just stopped by to give Jeff something and--”

“I’ll say,” Jeff mumbles, mostly under his breath, and she shoots him a deadly glare but he’s a terrible, terrible person so it only turns him on.

“We’re hardly ever all together like this anymore,” the Dean says, apparently not picking up on the tension. “Because you’re always so busy, Annie...” He cocks his head, thinking. “What about now? Are you free now?”

Annie looks up at Jeff in panic. “Well, really, I should probably--”

“She’s been off all day, actually,” Jeff chimes in, not quite sure why he’s torturing her like this. “So she’s got plenty of free time.”

“Why don’t the three of us go for an early dinner then?” the Dean suggests. “You know, catch up a little. I’ve got some grade-A gossip about who leaked Garrett’s honeymoon video and how Leonard met new sugar momma girlfriend that I’ll be happy to share once I’ve got a few watermelon margaritas in me.”

Annie tries to smile, but it’s so tight and forced that it’s really more of a grimace. “That’s really sweet, Dean, but I--”

“That’s a great idea, Craig,” Jeff declares. “I mean, Annie, you were just saying how hungry you are, right?”

She scowls at him so hard that it would level a lesser man -- he just grins.

“Perfect!” the Dean says, clapping his hands excitedly. “Let me just run to my office and grab my coat.” He pauses, giving Annie a once-over. “Weren’t you cold in just that little trench?”

“It’s thicker than it looks,” she grits out.

Once they’re alone again, though, she smacks Jeff’s arm hard enough that there might be a hand print.

“You’re such an ass,” she growls. “I can’t sit through an entire dinner with the Dean in my underwear!”

He smirks. “Well, I kind of thought you’d leave the coat on, but hey, you do you.”

She stands, pointing a finger right in his face. “I swear I’m going to get you back for this. When you least expect it… you’ll pay.”

She stalks out of the room, and he grins, waiting a second to follow after her.

He’s kind of got a fantasy about that too.


	4. Whenever A Storm Blows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Just let me take care of you." from sarahrunsfromzombies

They’re in the middle of some Abed-approved horror movie on Netflix and Jeff is having too much fun teasing her about the pillow that she’s holding partially in front of her face, ready at a moment’s notice to shield her eyes from whatever horrifying thing is happening on-screen (“You work on cases everyday where someone’s actually killed somebody else… why would a fake monster scare you?” “It’s not just the monster,” she hisses defensively. “I know it’s not real… it’s this woman totally coming unhinged. That’s terrifying!”), when he gets the call.

She knows immediately that it’s bad news from the way he hangs his head and rubs a rough hand over the back of his neck as he listens to someone talk on the other end of the line, but she doesn’t know how bad it really is until he disconnects the call and plaintively mumbles something that’s mostly unintelligible.

Because the one word she can make out is ‘mother’ -- and that’s all it takes for the picture to become crystal clear.

It’s not just bad news.

It’s life-shattering, heartbreaking news.

In the moment, she does the only thing that she knows how -- hugs him for all he’s worth. But honestly, she isn’t really sure that she’s cut out for providing the kind of support he needs right now.

Because the thing is, she doesn’t really have much personal experience with death. Besides Pierce and her grandmother on her father’s side, she hasn’t lost anyone in that way. Both of her grandfathers were dead before she was born and her cousin Mindy died in a car accident when she was only three, so she had no real memories of any of them, and it’s not like she could miss what she didn’t know.

She doesn’t understand what it’s like have to say goodbye to your family.

But then, when she stops to think about it, she has lost almost her entire family, despite the fact that they’re all still very much alive and well, so maybe she understands loss better than she realizes (or wants to admit).

Of course, it’s still not really the same thing as losing your mother forever, so she isn’t sure how to translate her experience into something that might actually help Jeff.

She definitely doesn’t know what to say to him, the words that might make him feel even a little bit better, so she relies on action instead -- standing beside him at the funeral home to help pick out a casket and flowers, making sure that he eats enough and drinks something more than scotch every so often, putting on her blackest dress and twisting her hair up in a respectful bun for the memorial service, offering her hand to hold and rubbing his back in slow, even circles that she knows he finds soothing.

That all has to add up in some way that shows him how much she cares, how much she’s hurting for him.

And really, it’s probably for the best that she doesn’t know what to say, because he doesn’t really seem to be in the mood for talking. He looks mostly tired as he sits in his dark suit and stares vacantly into space. Over the years, she’s gotten pretty good at reading him, at seeing past the shiny, polished facade he throws up and right to the heart of him. The trouble now is that he isn't putting up any facade -- he is just a terribly blank slate and she doesn’t know enough of the details to put any of it together on her own.

That’s the funny thing -- she may not know anything helpful to say to him, but there are certainly plenty of questions rattling around her head, buzzing on the tip of her tongue.

Because the simple truth is that she doesn’t have any idea at all what his relationship with his mother was like -- he mentioned her every now and then, he’d take quiet phone calls from her every so often, and a couple of times a year, he’d disappear for an afternoon and only say later that he’d gone home for a visit.

But Annie’s never met Doreen Winger, never spoken to her, or exchanged so much as an email. She doesn’t know if the woman even knew she existed. She’s known Jeff for seven years, been with him for nearly a year, and there’s still this major part of his life that she knows nothing about.

Sometimes, she thinks it’s strange. Sometimes, she’s even a little bit hurt.

Of course, she hasn’t exactly invited him out to dinner with her parents, arranged a visit with her brother, or really opened up much about that part of her own life, so maybe she gets it.

Jeff probably thought that there’d be plenty of time.

The fact that there isn’t any more time makes her sad in a way that she doesn’t really understand -- because it’s just like with Grandpa Fred or Poppa Ben and Cousin Mindy. She can’t miss a woman that she never even met.

But it’s the connection to Jeff, she thinks. The chance to meet the woman responsible for him, the one person who knew him before he built up all the walls and practiced all the charm and decided he had to pretend to be the shallowest version of himself possible to protect himself. It doesn’t matter that Annie’s bulldozed past all of that on her own -- she wants to hear what he was like as a kid, about the things he loved and the things he was scared of and the things he tried to get away with, from the person who loved him first.

And maybe it’s also because, sometimes, she thinks about the future (she can’t really help that; it’s just who she is -- planning, at least in her head, a few hundred steps ahead), when she’s working for the FBI, foiling terrorist plots or tracking down serial killers, earning commendations and distinguishing herself at every turn, and somehow, Jeff is always a part of it (because he’s proven to be a pretty supportive partner over the last nine months, sucking it up and quizzing her late into the night even though he hates studying himself, bringing her Chinese takeout and 64 ounces of Diet Coke for a caffeine fix when she’s working late at the lab, showing surprising patience on those date nights when she falls asleep in her wine glass before they’ve really gotten to the good part of the evening, and just loving her, really loving her, even when she’s cranky, even when she’s got dark circles under eyes, even when she’s mumbling about criminological theories in her sleep, even when she’s smacking at his arm and calling him a creep. Especially then).

In her hazy, daydreaming plans, he’s just always there.

Sometimes, he’s still teaching, and sometimes, he’s back to practicing law, and sometimes, he’s doing something totally improbable and off the wall, like writing sci-fi novels with a comedy twist or owning a snooty gourmet food store that sells $75 bottles of balsamic vinegar and $90 tins of imported saffron.

Sometimes, she just imagines living with him, in some modern but cozy condo where they don’t need something as trite as rings and piece of paper to know what they mean to one another, but other times -- and again, she can’t help it; it’s just where her mind goes -- she thinks about that more traditional route, where they’re married and have a big, comfy house and maybe even a kid or two (because more and more, she sort of has this feeling that they’d actually be pretty good parents -- they already know so many things _not_ to do from firsthand experience).

And now when she thinks of those potential children, she realizes they’ll have no grandparents to speak of, because she doesn’t have any real relationship with her parents and Jeff hasn’t spoken to his father since that ill-fated Thanksgiving and now his mother is gone too.

She looks around the small room at the funeral home, mostly empty except for a few friends from his mother’s retirement community, and she is hit with a sudden vision of holidays and family parties, years in the future, just the two of them and their kids, and her eyes get suddenly hot, tears burning along her lashes -- and it’s ridiculous because she is crying for children who don’t even exist, who, like her, won’t even know what they’re missing, when Jeff is the one who’s actually lost someone that’s left a void in his life, in his heart. It makes her feel like a terrible person, so she squeezes his hand even tighter, tangling her fingers with his and trying to sync her breathing with his so he knows that he’s not alone.

For a moment, she wonders if his father knows. She wants to believe that he’d show up if he did -- not because he actually feels the need to mourn the woman that he abandoned, but because his son might need him. And she knows that Jeff wouldn’t want him here, would be furious if he had the gall to show up, but she sort of thinks that his father at least owes him that, so years later, he could look back and know that his father actually cared enough to endure that kind of anger and rejection.

She’d want that from her parents, she thinks. It would still mean something beneath all the pain and bitterness.

At some point, Britta shows up, and while Annie is sure that Jeff appreciates the gesture, her insistence that he talk about his feelings, about how exactly his mother’s death is affecting him, only makes him shut down tighter, crossing one leg over the other and turning in on himself like he’s trying to block out the rest of the world. The Dean also stops by , with a lovely arrangement of lilies, but he only annoys Jeff too, sobbing loudly the entire time even though he never met Mrs. Winger either.

There’s probably not much that could make Jeff feel better, but clearly, none of them know the right thing to do. For Annie, it feels like the worst kind of failure, like she’s letting him down when he needs her most.

After the cemetery, she suggests they get something to eat, just for something to do, but he wants to go home. Part of her wonders if what he really wants is to be left alone, but she can’t seem to find a way to ask without making it seem like she’s abandoning him -- and he drives straight to his place anyway, like it’s only natural that she come back with him.

Which makes sense, really, because they’ve spent months becoming this unit, this team, and this is just one more thing that they’ll do together.

Jeff obviously agrees because he’s barely closed the door behind them when he reaches for her, pulling her tightly against him and sealing his mouth over hers like he wants to curl himself inside her and never crawl out.

She might be a little confused as he guides her blindly to the bedroom -- because it does seem like an odd time to feel so amorous -- but she thinks that maybe she understands his impulse. Maybe after losing his mother, he just wants to feel close to someone else or maybe the confrontation with mortality has left him with a desperate need to feel alive or maybe he just wants a distraction from everything that’s happened and nothing distracts Jeff better than sex. It’s certainly a better option than drinking away his feelings, which she’s been a little worried about.

So instead of grabbing for a bottle, he eases her back onto his bed, where the sheets are still rumpled from this morning, and kisses her frantically, like he’s trying to get drunk on her. She slides her hands over his back, and she can feel the heat from his skin even through the layers of his suit jacket and dress shirt. He trails his mouth along her jaw, over the side of her neck, but he’s shifting against her restlessly, like he can’t quite find the rhythm that he wants.

Normally, she’d just tell him to go faster or slower, whatever felt right to her, but nothing about this really feels normal, so she tries to move with him and let him figure out the pace. He reaches beneath her to find the zipper on her dress, and she arches her back to give him more room to work. She can feel his erection against his thigh, and she raises her leg, massaging gently -- until he fumbles with the zipper and presses his face into the curve of her shoulder.

“God damn it,” he groans, losing his grip on the metal all together. “I can’t…”

She runs a hand over the back of his head, trying to soothe him. Maybe this isn’t what he really needs now. Maybe he wants something else, something more, and he just doesn’t know how to ask for it. She kisses his ear because it’s the only thing she can reach.

“It’s okay. We don’t have to--”

“No,” he declares. He rolls off of her and flings an arm over his face, sighing wearily. “I want to. I just …”

He shakes his head against the pillow, looking as worn out and vulnerable as she’s ever seen him, and something heavy lodges in her chest. In that moment, she needs to be close to him just as badly as he does, so she pulls his hand away from his face and laces her fingers through his. He refuses to meet her eyes, but she doesn’t let that deter her.

“Okay,” she whispers. “So just let me take care of you…”

She sits up and reaches behind her to unzip her dress. It’s not until she stands beside the bed to let the fabric fall away that Jeff finally looks up.

“Annie, you don’t have to--”

“It’s okay,” she tells him as she climbs back onto the bed. “Let me do this…”

He looks like he wants to argue, like he thinks that she’s just taking pity on him, but she just slides closer, dragging her fingers along his chest. She kisses the corner of his mouth as softly as she can, and he exhales shakily, as if he isn’t quite expecting the touch. His breath warms her like a fever, but she trails her lips along his jaw with slow precision, like they have all the time in the world.

At some point, he must finally give in because he doesn’t fight her when she tugs him upward so she can slide his jacket off and toss it to the floor. He drops back against the pillows and she can feel his eyes on her as she undoes his tie, carefully pulling the silk out of its knot and shoving it somewhere beneath his head.

She isn’t quite sure what answers he’s looking for in her face -- and she doesn’t think he’ll find them because she doesn’t feel sure of much at the moment. Except that she loves him and they need each other. That much is clear. -- but he’s watching her closely, like everything she does is endlessly fascinating.

So she takes her time undressing him, plucking at the buttons of his shirt slowly and methodically, and he holds himself incredibly still, almost as if he’s afraid to move -- until she pushes the cotton away, letting it crumple beneath him, and starts tracing her fingers over the warm skin of his chest and stomach in lazy, deliberate strokes. He shivers then, closing his eyes and licking at his lip as he shifts against the pillows.

She wants to keep going slow, but when his hands reach for her hips, trying to drag her to him, she can’t resist. So she climbs over him, straddling his lap so she can reach him more easily. He seems to be expecting a proper kiss and tugs her toward his mouth, but now she doesn’t give in. She presses her lips to base of throat instead, kissing her way along his collarbones and chest. He shifts under her anxiously, tangling a hand in her hair and pulling at her bun. She feels it start to unravel, stray bobby pins falling over the bed like rain. She shakes her head so the waves fall completely free and her hair brushes over his skin, teasing him until he’s nearly breathless.

“Annie,” he groans, trying to pull her up to him again. “I can’t--”

“Shhh,” she whispers against the center of his chest, where she can feel his heart pounding, fast and broken. “It’s okay…”

She pats his thigh gently as she moves down, kissing her way over his stomach, swirling her tongue around his belly button just a little because he’s ticklish there and sure enough, he huffs out a breathy laugh and squirms against the sheets, and for a moment, it’s just any other night in his bed, when they’re having a little fun with each other.

When her fingers curl around his belt, though, his hips jump against her, like he’s beyond ready. She finally speeds things up a little, undoing his pants and shoving them and his underwear down to his ankles. She lets him do the rest of the work of kicking them off, so she can grab a condom from the top drawer of his nightstand.

He props himself up on his elbows so she has a better view as she takes off her bra and panties, and even though she knows it’s not a good idea, she tears the condom open with her teeth because she knows he loves it when she does that.

It definitely gets him going now because when she crawls back over him and sits on his thighs to roll the condom on, he clutches at her knees so hard that she thinks he might leave fingerprints on her skin.

There’s really no point in dragging things out anymore, so she sinks down on him fast enough to make them both moan, long and low.

His hands move to her waist, where his grip is just as tight, but he doesn’t try to move her. He closes his eyes, takes several shallow breaths, and just waits for her, every muscle in his body straining with the effort. She rakes her nails over his chest and he throws his head back, closing his eyes and baring his throat in a way that makes her want to take a bite.

But the time isn’t right for that kind of thing.

Instead, she just concentrates on moving, rising and falling over him steadily, so each stroke takes him a little deeper inside her, until she can feel the heat spiraling out from between her legs through her entire body. Jeff curses under his breath and curves his hands over her ass, giving her a little better leverage.

His eyes are still closed, though, and something about that isn’t right, so she slows down, running her hand over his cheek.

“Jeff,” she says. “Look at me.”

He opens his eyes slowly, like he’s coming out of a dream, and she finds herself nodding absently as he finally meets her gaze. It’s like something clicks into place then, being able to look him in the eye, and she starts moving again, just as slowly and deliberately as before.

Something must still be missing for Jeff, though, because he pushes himself upright, so he’s sitting against the headboard. He nearly throws her completely off balance in the process, but he hugs her against him to help steady her. She winds her arms around his neck, his face pressed to her chest, and when she starts grinding against him again, the new angle practically makes her see stars.

It feels almost inappropriate to come when this is supposed to be all about her taking care of Jeff, making him feel a little bit less alone, but she doesn’t think she can help herself -- especially when he presses his lips against the curve of her breast, flashes just a little bit of teeth and tongue, and every inch of her skin feels like it’s been lit on fire. She bites her lip to keep from crying out, but she squeezes him even more tightly against her, inside her, as the tremors chase through her.

He’s not likely to have missed that.

But she refuses to get distracted, her hips in constant motion, and she rides him until he comes, which he does with a loud, throaty yell that sounds so raw, it’s almost as if he’s finally letting out every emotion he’s held in check for the past three days. He’s still clutching her to him, panting raggedly against her skin,and she smooths her hands over his hair again and again until he finally catches his breath.

She doesn’t resist when he pulls her back with him against the mattress, watching silently as he grabs a tissue from the nightstand and tosses the condom in the trash. She still doesn’t have anything meaningful to stay to him and sex never really fixes anything, but she hopes he understands that he’s not alone, that they’re in this together.

He flips off the light and lies down beside her, straightening the pillow beneath his head as she pulls the sheets over them.

“We can talk if you want,” she says suddenly, the words out of her mouth before she has time to second guess herself. “If that’ll make you feel--”

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk,” he says, hesitating a bit. “Not yet anyway.”

She nods.

“I just want to lie here,” he whispers. “And pretend that everything's the same as it ever was.” He turns to look at her, and there’s only faint stream of light from the moon and street lamps outside the window, but she can see the soft, warm look in his eyes. “Okay?”

She turns on her side, toward him, and reaches for his hand, knotting their fingers together. “Okay.”

He turns too, so they’re facing one another in the middle of the bed. He pulls their joined hands up to his chest, and she can feel his heartbeat again -- but it’s slow and steady this time, like it’s starting to find its rhythm again.

She closes her eyes and tries to sleep.


	5. The Effects of Lightning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “That was hotter than it had any right to be.” from teruel-a-witch and ameliasfairytales

 

For a second, she almost doesn’t know where she is.

She can see the stark white ceiling overhead, feel the thick, humid air pressing against her skin, and sense a heavy, damp weight on top of her, but it’s all kind of blur beyond that.

Her dizziness is partly responsible, but it also probably has something to do with the fact that she’s only been in D.C. for five weeks and her sublet apartment definitely hasn’t become home. It’s not like her room back in Greendale, which she could sketch in vivid detail from memory alone, which she would recognize even if she was blindfolded just from its warm cinnamon scent and the textured feel of its walls.

Even in her current state, all fuzzy-headed and loose-limbed beyond sense, she would know if she was back there.

So it takes her a moment to put her current reality together -- she is in a tiny studio apartment in Georgetown, on a lumpy, barely full size mattress, with a very naked Jeff Winger draped over her.

But it just might be her new favorite place on the planet.

If she still had time to journal these days, she thinks she knows exactly what today’s entry would say: _Dear Diary, Today Jeff rocked my world six ways from Sunday. I’d like to tie him to my bed and make love to him for six months straight._

Or words to that effect anyway.

Just as his weight is starting to feel more oppressive than comforting, he stirs, panting raggedly against her neck. When he manages to roll off of her, he is wearing the boldest, smuggest smile that she’s ever seen on him -- which is really saying something -- but she is still too blissed out to care.

And honestly, her smile might be just as insufferable if there was a mirror handy to check in.

“Jesus,” he half says, half chuckles, shaking his head against the pillow. “That was hotter than it had any right to be.”

She turns to gape at him, feeling vaguely offended. Did he still think she was some sort of virgin schoolgirl who didn’t know her way around a man’s body? And even if that were even a little bit true, he should know that her instincts are second to none -- she can figure out plenty on the fly. He should have a little more faith in her, she thinks testily.

She tugs some the sheets from under him to cover herself a little -- he doesn’t deserve a free show if he thinks so little of her.  

“Excuse me?” she says coolly.

He wheezes out a laugh and pats at his chest, like he’s trying to convince his heart to slow down.

“Oh, you know,” he says. “There was a hell of a lot of buildup so I wouldn’t have been surprised if it turned out to be a little anticlimactic… no pun intended.” The corner of his mouth lifts in a sexy smirk that she either wants to smack or kiss off his face -- she can’t quite decide. “First times can be awkward too. Getting to know each other, feeling each other out… and I’m man enough to admit I was a little overeager and didn’t really sleep well last night because I knew I was coming here today… so seriously, it should’ve been a disaster. But that was just …” He grins, trailing his fingers along the inside of her wrist. “It’s like you were reading my mind the entire time.”

She smiles, because he’s managed to get himself off the hook quite well. Besides, he’s right too -- they were in synch pretty much from the start, almost like it was effortless, like they’d been ready for this for a long time.

“Well, we know each really well,” she points out. “And you know, maybe, over the years, I’d kind of come up an outline of what I thought you’d like… you know, in bed.”

Jeff rises up on an elbow and beams down at her, and it’s obvious that she’s said a little too much.

“You’ve been sexually profiling me?” he asks, sounding absolutely delighted at the prospect.

She shrugs, trying to shift a little onto her side so she can hide her suddenly warm cheeks, but he’s having none of it, moving with her to maintain eye contact.

“I’m definitely gonna need some details here, Annie,” he says. “Because your methods were pretty sound. So what exactly’s in this profile?”

She pinches a bit of the sheets between her fingers, lifting her shoulders in a way that she hopes conveys complete nonchalance. “I can’t tell you all my secrets. Every relationship needs some mystery.”

It’s hard to resist his pout, which somehow manages to be equal parts adorable and sexy -- particularly when it’s paired with his ridiculously chiseled naked body, all sweaty and flushed. It’s somehow become even more of a temptation now that she knows how perfectly it fits with hers, how it moves right in time with hers, how it can set her blood singing and her head spinning in a matter of seconds.

Like now, when he reaches out to trace his fingers along the curve of her hip where the sheet’s  fallen away and somehow manages to rouse every nerve ending in her body with that simple touch, despite the fact that she’s still feeling a little wrung out at the moment. She shivers, even though the ancient air conditioning unit in the window is barely doing its job, and turns back toward him.

“Besides,” she says. “The learning curve probably won’t be that steep. I mean, personally speaking … and please don’t take this as a knock against you in any way, but it’s pretty easy for me to … you know.”

He doesn’t even try to hide his stupid grin. “Come?” he supplies helpfully.

She feels her cheek get hot again and turns her face into the pillow as she nods. He squeezes her hip, laughing a little.

“Hey, come on. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. You should totally be bragging about it. It’s like having a super power.”

“Jeff,” she groans, and she doesn’t miss when she swats at his arm but  it doesn’t really get him to stop chuckling. “I just mean that I know my body and I know what it takes to get there so it’s not… it’s just not a big deal, okay?”

He nods slowly, trying to school his features into something resembling a serious expression. It doesn’t really work, though, because she can see the corner of his mouth twitching and his eyes are doing that squinty thing they do when he’s about to laugh. He rolls onto his back again, folding an arm behind his head, and she really wishes that he would just come out with whatever smart ass remark he’s building to already.

“You know your body,” he repeats, enunciating each word carefully. When he turns to look at her, his eyes are practically twinkling. “Because you’re an expert at getting yourself off?

Somehow, in what must be a supreme act of will power, she resists the urge to kick at his shin, Instead, she just lifts a lazy shoulder, playing it as cool as possible. “Maybe.”

It’s his turn to gape at her, which he of course does in the sexiest way possible -- she’s starting to hate that about him.

“Seriously?”

“What’s the big deal? You probably do it every day.”

For a second, he cocks his head back and forth, like he’s trying to do some accounting.

“Not exactly,” he finally says. “But you’re not far off.”

She nods. “Okay, see? So what’s the big deal if I do too?”

It almost happens in slow motion, the way his eyes widen and his jaw sort of drops -- and she thinks that she’s going to regret that she didn’t have her phone handy for the photo op later because she’s never seen him look quite so stunned before.

“Oh my God,” he whispers. “*Every* day?”

“Not exactly,” she parrots back, a little defensively. “But you’re not far off. It helps me sleep!”

His cat-that-ate-the-canary grin is definitely obnoxious, but he makes it worse by sputtering out a laugh and shaking his head in utter amusement, and there’s no way to play it cool now.

“You’re such a jerk,” she declares, punching at his shoulder. “And a typical sexist guy. It’s okay for you to jerk off whenever the mood strikes, but if a woman is comfortable with her sexuality and can take care of herself, you have to make fun of--”

“No, no, no,” he insists, laughter still in his voice. He curls a hand around her fist to ward off another punch, though he strokes his thumb against hers in a way that seems more playful than defensive. “You’ve got it all wrong. I’m not making fun of you. I mean, this might actually be the greatest thing I’ve ever heard. Good for you, Annie. Go get you some.”

She tries to pull her hand away from him, so she can hit at his arm again, but she’s laughing as she does it.

Because he’s an ass, sure, but he’s her ass.

“You’re just saying that because you’re picturing me doing it.”

He nods eagerly. “Yeah, pretty much.”

She rolls her eyes, though it’s mostly for show. “Like I said… typical guy.”

He doesn’t bother to argue -- he actually falls back against the pillows and stretches out, like he’s prepared to let the issue rest. It’s unlike him, she thinks, because while he likes to pretend that he’s as cool and laid back as they come, he‘s like a dog with a bone when he’s worked up about something -- particularly something that amuses him as much as this does.

So of course, his silence doesn’t last.

“So…” he says, with a breezy casualness, like he’s about to ask about the weather in D.C. or what’s up first on their sightseeing tour tomorrow. “Do you use a vibrator?”

“Jeff!”

He shrugs innocently. “Come on, Annie. Shouldn’t we able to talk about things like this now that we’re …  together?”

It seems like he has a difficult time finding the right word for what exactly they are now -- and part of her wants to point that his difficulty speaking frankly about the emotional aspect of their relationship is no different that her having trouble talking about the sexual component.

But if she’s honest, she’d probably hesitate about how exactly to describe their relationship at the moment too (it feels ridiculous to call him her boyfriend -- he’s forty-one, for starters, but even more than that, the term is painfully inadequate to describe his place in her life), so maybe she shouldn’t be so defensive.

Besides, he kind of has a point. They should be able to talk about these kinds of things now.

“Sometimes,” she admits reluctantly. “But it can get to be too much after a while. Almost like it densensitizes me or something. So I mostly go low-tech. You know, just my fingers.”

When she waggles her hand at him, she’s not doing it to be provocative -- she actually feels a little awkward and clumsy -- but it obviously does something for him because his eyes go dark and he reaches for her hand, bringing it to his mouth so he can press a kiss to each fingertip, even nibble at them a little. She giggles and squirms against the mattress, even though it’s not really all that funny.

He looks up at her from beneath his ridiculously long lashes, trying for what she assumes is innocence but ending up much closer to smoldering. “Can I see?”

“What?” she nearly stutters, though she knows exactly what he’s asking -- the way his tone of voice makes her flush and shiver at the same time is clue enough.

“Show me?” he clarifies.

He says it so simply, almost like he’s just asking her to demonstrate how Snapchat works or how to take the Metro from her apartment to Capitol Hill. But she finds herself hesitating, twisting the edge of the sheet between her fingers.

“Think of as an educational experience,” he says, kissing the palm of her hand. “You know, so I can pick up some pointers. Because I don’t have your profiling skills.” He grins a little crookedly, but with the kind of charm that would probably get plenty of women to cave.“I’ll even take notes and give a PowerPoint presentation on what I learned afterward.”

She huffs out a nervous laugh, because maybe the idea is a little uncomfortable, but it also turns her on -- to know how badly he wants to see it and to imagine him watching her as she does it -- and maybe that’s what is really rattling her, the idea that she might enjoy doing this for him so much.

She exhales slowly and lifts her shoulders. “Okay,” she says. “But I get an IOU for a future date. You know, so I can watch you.”

The faintest trace of surprise passes over his face, as if he wasn’t quite sure that he could actually convince her, but then he’s nodding vigorously and scooting a little closer to improve his view.

“Sure. Fine. Whatever floats your boat,” he declares, but she gets the distinct impression that he isn’t really aware of what exactly he’s promising her -- it could be his firstborn or his very soul, and he’d still go along with it.

She really doesn’t know how to begin -- she’s never done anything like this for an audience before -- so she starts with something simple, rolling onto her back and pushing the sheet that’s covering the lower half of her body to her feet so she’s completely exposed. Of course, he’s already seen her naked, but that happened for the first time literally an hour ago and then he was too distracted by touching and tasting and feeling to really stop and study her. Now, he’s taking in every detail as fast as he can, like trying to commit it all to memory, but instead of making her self-conscious, it give her an almost giddy thrill.

Still, she decides that it’s best to pretend that she’s back in her bedroom in Greendale, somewhere she feels completely comfortable -- and definitely all alone to help ward off any performance anxiety.

She starts easy, trailing one hand down her neck and over her collarbones and the other along her thigh. Her fingers drift down over her breast, more teasing than anything else, and her other hand glides lower along her inner thigh, where the skin is sensitive enough that she sighs a little with how good it feels.

When she glances over at Jeff for a minute, she is certain that she’s never seen him so focused on anything in his life -- he doesn’t seem to know which hand to watch, though, and his eyes dart back and forth between the upper and lower halves of her body like he’s undergoing hypnosis and someone’s swinging a pocket watch in his face.

She usually takes her time when she’s all by herself, lingers and tries to draws it out, but right now, she’s too excited to go slow. She’s still a little sensitive from earlier, though, so she doesn’t start with a clit like she normally would. Instead, she just skates her fingers between her thighs slowly, getting comfortable with the feeling. She palms her breast a little more firmly, and now that things are getting more serious, she can’t seem to keep her eyes open any longer

But she can still feel Jeff watching her somehow, his gaze as heavy and hot as the air outside.

That’s all it takes to get her to slide a couple of fingers inside, moving them slowly and carefully as she remembers what it felt like to have him inside her just a little while ago. She lets out an embarrassing whimper and bites at her lip to try to keep quiet, but she can feel Jeff moving beside her, the mattress shaking a bit with his weight. She ignores it, though, curling her fingers so she can push them deeper, drag herself a little closer to the edge.

But it’s not quite enough, so she goes in for the kill, pressing her thumb against her clit and pinching at her nipple so her hips surge up against her hand and she has to plant her feet flat against the bed to find the rhythm that she likes.

She can’t hold back her moan, which seems impossibly loud in the otherwise quiet apartment.

“You’re gonna have to collect that IOU now.”

Jeff’s voice is ragged and breathless, and when she opens her eyes, he’s already got a hand around his erection. She nods stupidly, slowing her fingers for a minute.

“Yeah, okay. Good...”

She really wasn’t aware of this particular kink previously, but watching him slide his fist over his cock is hot in a way that she isn’t entirely prepared for her. The fingers between her legs start to move faster, and somehow, his hand works at the exact same pace -- and this whole thing is insane because barely an hour and a half ago, they hadn’t even slept together and now they’re in middle of something that feels even more intimate.

At some point, she manages to tear her eyes away from the main attraction and look up at his face -- he’s staring right at her and the look on his face is so intense, so wrecked and out of control, that she feels herself come around her fingers as she looks into his eyes and it’s only a matter of seconds before he’s coming all over his hand too, never once looking away from her.

Time seems to slow, but maybe that’s because she’s feeling a little disoriented again as she collapses back against the bed. She still feels Jeff flop down beside her, though, and they’re both quiet as they try to catch their breath. And even though her mind is racing, she tries to piece it all together, make sense of everything that’s happened between them tonight.  

Because if someone had told her the night she left Greendale for D.C. that this would happen in quite this way, she doesn’t think she would have believed it -- and yet, right now, everything about it feels right in some strange way.

She’s trying to grab the edge of the sheet to cover herself without moving too much when Jeff suddenly laughs.

“See?” he says as he pushes himself upright to lean over the side of the bed. He snags his T-shirt from the floor and uses it to clean his hand. “This is what I’m talking about. First times aren’t usually like this. It’s not--”

“Technically,” she interrupts. “This was the second time.”

He smiles, clearly amused. “It’s all part of the same…” He cocks his head back and forth, searching for the right word. “Encounter,” he finally settles on.

She grins, scooting closer to him so she can drag her hand over his chest. “It was really hot,” she whispers. “Kind of sets the bar high for the future, though.”

He leans in to kiss her, and when she feels him smiling against her mouth, she bites at his lower lip just to tease him a little.

“I look forward to working tirelessly to outdo ourselves,” he tells her. He moves his mouth along her jaw toward her ear, and she clutches at his hips when he tugs the lobe between his teeth a little harder than she’s expecting. “Give me a few minutes to recover,” he whispers into her hair. “And we could start right now. I need to clean up… wanna see if we can perfect shower sex right out of the gate too?”

She doesn’t need any convincing.

 

 


	6. It Used To Be Like This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "This is going differently than I imagined." from ameliasfairytales

It’s like some switch is flipped as soon as he gets his apartment door open.

In the hallway, she’s just holding his hand -- and sure, it’s plenty tender and kind of fierce, because Annie is the only woman he’s ever known who can somehow pour everything that she feels and thinks about him into the simple tangling of her fingers through his, but it’s mostly innocent, like teenagers on a first date. She’s glancing up at him from beneath her lashes too, in a way that seems almost shy, and when he smiles at her over his shoulder as he fits the key in the lock, he could almost swear that there’s just the faintest hint of a blush, high up on her cheekbones.

Honestly, it’s pretty much what he’s expecting after their appropriately romantic dinner, at a swanky restaurant that he can’t really afford, with dim lighting and moody piano music and an impressive chocolate souffle dessert that they had to wait nearly 20 minutes for. 

He didn’t really have an exact idea of what tonight would be like, but it’s pretty much going according to plan (if he was the kind of guy who made plans, which he’s really not. Well, not grand plans anyway. There might be a bottle of Dom Perignon White Gold chilling in his fridge, but it’s not like he went out and bought it or anything -- it was a gift from Ted a million years ago for winning some impossible case for the firm that he just hadn’t gotten around to drinking during the past eight or so years.) and the mood seems just about right.

As soon as he closes the door behind them, though, she goes totally off book.

That’s how he winds up slammed against the wood, with surprising force too, because she catches him totally off-guard. And then she’s kissing him, licking her way into his mouth like she’s taking no prisoners -- and he’s kissed her before, but it’s never really felt like this, as if they’re caught up in the kind of passion that could devour them both.

He’s not an idiot, though, so even though he’s not expecting it, instinct takes over and he gets on board pretty quickly, fisting a hand in her hair and pushing away from the door to press her against the adjacent wall. He bites at her lower lip, making her moan and clutch at his forearms like she isn’t sure she can stay on her feet. When she throws her head back, she bangs it against a framed print of some modern artist whose name he doesn’t even know, knocking it totally askew, but it gives him plenty of room to work his mouth along her jaw and neck so he doesn’t really care.

It seems like a good time to slow things down a bit, so he kisses his way to the curve of her shoulder carefully and deliberately, but that only seems to make her more frantic and she squirms against him, clawing at his shoulders, trying to shove his suit jacket out of the way, and nearly handcuffing him in the process. 

So he gives her what she wants, boosting her up so she can wrap her legs around his hips. But she still grinds against him almost impatiently, like she can’t quite get the rhythm right, and he slides his hands to her ass to help her move the way she wants. 

Apparently, that’s more than enough encouragement for her -- she flings his tie over his shoulder and hurries to undo the buttons on his shirt, even with his jacket mostly in place. He sucks at a particularly soft spot on her throat, and he can feel her pulse beating wildly against his lips, as fast as his own. Somehow, she manages to catch him by surprise again, tugging his shirt out of his pants and sliding her hands up his chest, ghosting over his nipples in a way that makes him grunt embarrassingly loud against her shoulder.

Given the situation, he can’t process exactly what is holding her dress on (there’s a long row of buttons down the back and maybe a zipper thing under her arm, but he isn’t entirely sure) so taking it off seems impossible. Instead, he slips his hand beneath the hem, over her thigh, where her skin is so warm that he almost wonders if she has a fever. She goes a little crazy as his fingers move higher, scratching her nails against his ribs and pressing her hips even harder against his and flashing her teeth against his shoulder through his shirt. 

It’s kind of amazing.

And finally, all of the push-ups and chest presses and triceps extensions that he’s done at the gym have a practical application because it’s taking a lot of upper body strength to keep her pinned to the wall with one arm -- but he wants to be able to maneuver a little more freely, so he spins somehow and drops her on the edge of the console table just beside the door. 

She gasps in surprise and lurches a little, nearly knocking the fancy little bronzed tray that he drops his keys in each night to the floor, but she reaches for him again without paying it any mind, squeezing his hips with her knees like a woman on a mission and now that he has free use of his hands, he can slip his fingers beneath the lacy trim of her panties and his mind is effectively blown when he feels just how hot and slick she is.

Holy fuck.

She whimpers against his mouth, like it’s just as much of a turn-on for her, and he knows that sound is going to feature heavily in his dreams for the rest of his life. When she starts tearing at his belt buckle, tracing her fingers along the length of him over his pants, he makes a similar sound - though maybe it’s even hungrier, needier, more desperate.

And it all feels way too good, the kind of good that makes things escalate quickly, and they’re already pretty much out of hand, and if something doesn’t change, he’s going to be fucking her on this damn table with their clothes still on in a matter of seconds. 

Which seems like a really good idea, actually, especially when most of the blood in his body is currently in his dick, but it doesn’t really fit in his not-really-a-plan plan for the evening and if he doesn’t do something now, it’ll all be over right here.

So he tries to still her hand by shifting his weight and trapping it between their bodies. He pants into the curve of her shoulder, struggling to catch his breath.

“Annie,” he practically whines. “I just… slow down a second, okay?”

She lifts her head, and her eyes are all hazy with lust and her hair is a tangled mess from his fingers combing through it, and he’s not sure that he’s ever seen her look more beautiful. 

“What?” she asks, sounding impatient. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” he insists. “Nothing. You’re amazing… I just…” He takes a deep breath, shaking his head. “This is going differently than I imagined.”

Her eyes narrow, and he’s not sure if she’s concerned or offended. She fingers the collar of his shirt, which is hopelessly askew, so she doesn’t have to look at him.

“What do you mean?”

He shrugs as best he can while crushed against her.

“I wanted to do this right,” he says. “You know, in an actual bed. With some music. Maybe candles… and I’ve got champagne in the fridge and we can...”

Her laughter, sweet but still a little throaty, completely derails his train of thought. She looks up at him again, grinning. 

“Really? I never pegged you as a romance novel kind of guy.”

“I’m not,” he snaps defensively. “But I thought you were.”

Her smile softens just a bit and she leans in to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. It’s just the faintest of touches, but he still feels warmth spreading through him like wildfire.

“Sometimes,” she admits. “But right now, it doesn’t really matter. Okay?”

She kisses him for real, with one hand curled around his jaw and the other tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. It barely takes a second for him to fall into it again, sliding his tongue against hers and sighing into her mouth -- until she drops a hand down to his pants again and tugs at his fly.

“No,” he groans -- and he’s pretty sure that his dick would stage a mutiny at this point if it could. “Annie, it does. It does matter. Because … I wanted it to be perfect. For you.”

She tilts her head, her eyes soft and a little dreamy, and bites at her lip, probably to keep from making that ridiculous ‘aww-ing’ sound that she knows he hates. She strokes her fingers over his cheek, though, and he’s not sure anyone has ever touched him so gently.

“Jeff,” she half-sighs, half-laughs. “That’s really, really sweet… but it’s been *six* years. And then we wasted last night at that excruciating welcome back party for me where no one would leave us alone for even a minute and tonight we sat through that entire dinner, with that annoying waiter who decided to tell us his life story all because we have the same food allergies and that stupid dessert that took forever to arrive… so I think we’ve waited long enough.” She shrugs, shaking her head. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be *now*.” 

There’s definitely a ring of truth to what she’s saying, but there’s also some part of him that thinks that the fact that they’ve waited so long is all the more reason why it should be perfect. 

She must realize that he’s not entirely convinced because she traces a finger down the center of his chest and smiles at him almost coyly. “Besides, it’s *just* the first time. There’ll be plenty of opportunities to get it it right. To make it perfect. So let’s just…”

He can’t help laughing because -- in theory -- he’s the older, wiser, more experienced one, and she’s the one who’s seeing this all clearly. 

He’s bringing little to the table, really.

“So what you’re saying is that you just want to get this one out of the way?” he teases. “Right here against my living room wall?”

She grins smartly, looking pretty pleased with herself -- and maybe with him too.

“Well, I don’t *just* want to get it out of the way. In case you hadn’t noticed, this whole thing…” She gestures at the entire scene -- her spot on the edge of the table, her dress pushed up to her hips, his clothing undone but still in place. “It’s kind of working for me. Big time.”

The corner of her mouth lifts, turning her smile into more of a smirk, and he laughs again and then she joins in, pressing her mouth to his so he can swallow the sound -- and this time, there isn’t even a thought in his head to stop her when she goes to undo his pants.

Which is how he winds up fucking her on his console table for their first time. 

But they do manage to make it to the couch for the second -- and for lucky number three, they finally reach the bed.

It doesn’t matter, though. 

They’re all kind of perfect.


	7. And That's How You Play The Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I had no idea you had such good ideas." from teruel-a-witch

There are plenty of things that he loves about being in an actual, functional, adult relationship with Annie Edison.

Like how it gives him someone else to blame when he begs out of social obligations and outings -- “Don’t know. Gotta check with Annie.” -- or how it means he doesn’t have to feel self-conscious about texting or calling her a half dozen times a day to share whatever insignificant thoughts are buzzing through his head or how it sometimes means she wakes him in the middle of the night for the kind of sleepy, languid sex that he never knew he loved or how he gets to hear her enthusiastically belt out over the top show tunes in the shower that’ll be stuck in his head all day or how she rubs his back and rests her head against his shoulder in exactly the right way when he’s tired and frustrated and pretty sure he can’t take another day at Greendale but isn’t able to verbalize any of it. 

You know, to name just a few.

Her habit of volunteering the two of them to do all manner of favors for their friends, however, definitely isn’t one of them.

Because that’s how he happens to find himself at Britta’s dive of a bar, well after 2 a.m., closing the place down, so Britta could duck out early for some feminist poetry slam or anti-establishment mixer, instead of home in bed with a (at least partially) naked Annie.

He sullenly lifts another rickety chair onto the sticky surface of a table, just as Annie instructed. She’s just finished placing the last bar stool on the counter and is getting ready to bust out an ancient broom to sweep the floor, which, he’s pretty sure, hasn’t been cleaned since the year she was born. 

“You’re doing a more thorough job than Britta ever does,” he tells her, crossing his arms over his chest. “I really don’t think it’s necessary.”

She shrugs, moving the broom in slow, even strokes. “If you’re going to do something,” she says. “You should do it right.”

It’s a completely foreign notion to his slacker mind and he kicks the toe of his shoe petulantly against the cheap tile floor when she turns to sweep the corner. She is clearly determined to clean the entire place, though, which means they probably won’t be out of here for another 15 or 20 minutes. He’ll sacrifice his time but not any more of his effort, so he wanders over to the pool table just for something to do. It’s in pretty shitty shape, with the felt worn through or stained in some spots, the rail cushions missing on one side, and at least a couple of the pockets shifted off balance.

But he absently reaches for the 8-ball that’s in front of him and rolls it into the cluster of other balls dotting the felt. He’s always liked the clicking sound they make when they knock against one another so he sends the 3-ball on its way next and it bangs against the 8 with a satisfying clack. 

It’s been awhile since he’s played and when he looks over his shoulder, Annie’s still sweeping behind the bar, so there’s probably plenty of time to get a few shots off. He doesn’t bother to rack up the balls, though -- he just leaves them scattered where they are and grabs the first cue he can find, which is too short for him but he’ll make do. 

And he does, knocking two balls in on his first attempt and another one on the second. He’s just about to sink the 11-ball in the corner pocket when Annie comes up behind him.

“We’re done,” she declares, even though she’s the one who did the majority of the work. “So we can go.”

He nods absently, lining up his shot and sending the ball careening into its dark cave of oblivion. When he straightens, Annie is smiling, like she’s appropriately impressed. She reaches for the nearest ball, the 2, and spins it elegantly across the table.

“Do you remember our first year at Greendale?” she asks. “When you got in the weird game of strip pool with your billiards teacher?”

Jeff smirks, chalking the end of his cue. “I don’t usually forget stripping down in front of the entire school, Annie.”

She nods, her smile going a little coy. “That inspired more than a few fantasies for me, you know.” 

She reaches for the 2-ball again, stroking her fingers over it in a gesture that can only be described as highly suggestive, and because he knows from firsthand experience exactly how good her hands can make him feel, it takes on a whole other dimension. He watches her turn the ball a few times, feeling a little warm.

“Oh yeah?” he finally says. “Like what?”

She shrugs, as if she’s sharing completely humdrum information, like what she ate for breakfast or how fast she can run a mile. “Nothing too original. Just you teaching me to play… you know, your arms around me, helping me hold the cue… and then you throwing me down on the table and …”

He grins. 

“It may not be original,” he says. “But it’s still pretty damn good.”

She rolls the 2-ball again, hard enough that it careens across the table, bumps against the edge and rolls neatly into one of the side pockets -- and whether it’s just luck or actual skill, it totally looks like she planned it just that way. He shakes his head, laughing.

“You trying to hustle me? Because you obviously know how to play already.”

“I wonder what it would feel like,” she almost whispers, caressing the surface of the table with slow fingers. “The felt against your skin, the balls rolling around you…”

“Probably pretty fucking great,” he says, and he’s unable to take his eyes off her hand, still making smooth, even strokes over the tabletop. 

She nods distractedly, barely paying attention to him, so he lifts his cue again and gets ready to make another shot. He barely lines it up, though, before Annie turns, looking at him over her shoulder almost slyly.

“Let’s do it,” she declares. 

He smirks, because he knows she’s just messing with him, and leans over the table. “Yeah. Okay. Sure.”

But she nudges his elbow before he can get his shot off and he stumbles against the table. When he glances up at her, her expression is so gleefully naughty that it seems like something straight out of one of his own fantasies. 

“I’m serious, Jeff. When are we ever going to have an opportunity like this again?” She gestures at their surroundings, and it’s suddenly become apparent just how serious she is. “We’re all alone in an empty bar, with a perfectly good pool table right here. There’s no reason not to.”

He straightens, leaning against his pool stick. “No reason not to,” he repeats, almost under his breath, like the idea is ridiculous, as off the wall and crazy they come -- but the truth is that he’s already imagining it: Annie spread out across the table, her pale skin hotter than a fever and glowing against the dark felt, balls rolling around her writhing body.

And it’s a compelling image, to say the least.

Stupidly, he glances over his shoulder to make sure the door is still closed. He knows that it’s locked -- he was the one responsible for that piece of business -- so it’s not like they have to worry about anyone wandering in. 

Which means she’s right -- there’s really no good reason not to indulge her little fantasy.

She’s obviously getting impatient, though, sighing wearily and boosting herself up on the edge of the table. She crosses her legs and leans back on her hands in a sexy, femme fatale kind of way, and it occurs to him, not for the first time, that she may very well be the death of him.

“Do you really need to think about it that hard?” she asks. “You know you want to…”

She says the last bit in a sing-songy voice that’s obviously meant to needle him, but really, she’s only stating the obvious -- because duh. He wants her all the time, everywhere. 

It’s hardly a revelation. 

So he steps up to the table, takes her hand, and helps her back onto the floor.

“Jeff!” she protests. “What are you--”

“If you’re going to do something,” he says, a little smugly. “You should do it right.”

She tugs on the hem of his shirt, grinning up at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means…” He turns her around so she’s facing the table and he’s directly behind her. When he places the cue in her hands, though, she clearly isn’t expecting it and almost drops it. “That I’m supposed to teach you how to play. Right?”

He presses up against her so she can feel every inch of him against her, and she pushes right back, rubbing against him with the kind of purpose that’s impossible to misinterpret. 

“Right,” she says, in a low, sultry voice. “That’s exactly right.”

“Okay, so you’re going to put your right hand here…” He curls his fingers over hers, sliding her fist toward the back of the stick. “Not too tight, though. You want to keep it nice and relaxed.”

She adjusts her fingers a little under his and shoots him a coy glance over her shoulder. “Like this?”

“Yeah. That’s good.” He steps forward, pushing her closer to the table. “Now, lean over…” He moves with her, so they’re both bent over the table and their bodies remain in full, heated contact. “And put your left hand near the end so you can use your thumb and index finger to steady the cue.”

She follows his instructions to a tee, because Annie Edison is a conscientious student even if she’s only play-acting at it for some fantasy. “Got it,” she says triumphantly.

So he leans in even closer, bringing his mouth right beside her ear -- and he doesn’t miss the way her breathing gets a little shallower as he curls himself around her. “Now, line up your shot. You want to try to hit the ball as close to the center as you can,” he nearly whispers. “They call that the sweet spot.”

She wiggles against him, her ass rubbing against his groin teasingly. “Yeah?”

“Stay relaxed, though,” he tells her. “You want to be nice and loose.”

She laughs, and the sound vibrates all the way from her body to his. If he wasn’t already hard as a fucking rock, that would definitely do it, and he bucks against her so she can feel just how into her little fantasy he is. 

She must appreciate his enthusiasm because she sighs and slides her ass against him again, so slowly that it almost feels like torture -- but then, a moment later, she’s all business, doing exactly what he’s told her at the pool table. He stays wrapped around her, his hand over hers on the cue. He lets her control the shot, though, and sure enough, she hits the 6-ball right into the corner pocket where she was aiming.

For a few seconds, neither of them move, staying bent over the table and pressed together hotly. He strokes his thumb over her hand at the back of the pool cue, and she laughs again, in that haughty way he’s seriously come to love.

“How was that?” she asks, and he wants to kiss her smart, little mouth more than he wants to breathe.

“Pretty good,” he tells her. “For a beginner.”

And even though they’re playing a game, even though he’s not really teaching her anything, Annie huffs in outrage, straightening up so quickly that it sends him stumbling backward a little. She leans the cue against the table and turns to face him with a flourish -- the fierce, determined look in her eyes unnerves and turns him on in equal parts.

“For a beginner?” she repeats acidly. “Do I really seem like a beginner to you?”

He should see it coming, but truthfully, he’s caught completely off-guard when she reaches for the hem of her dress, pulls it up, and shimmies her way out of it. She tosses it to the far side of the table and stands there in the middle of the deserted bar in just her underwear -- and it’s not even her sexiest stuff, just a black and white floral print bra and purple cotton panties, but dear God, he’s just about ready to drop to his knees. 

“Actually,” he somehow manages to say. “I bet you could teach me a thing or two.”

She grins, in a maddening, know-it-all way. “I think I’ve got you pretty well-trained already.”

He can’t help laughing. “Is that so?”

She shrugs, like the evidence speaks quite well for itself, and then takes a step backward, boosting herself back up on the table and kicking off her shoes. She scoots back over the felt until she’s reclining right in the center, leaning back on her palms and crossing her legs at the ankle. He’s not an idiot, so he doesn’t need an invitation -- he climbs onto the table and over her without a single word from her.

She lies back, fisting her hands in his shirt to drag him with her, and the corner of her mouth lifts in a sexy smirk. “See? So well-trained.”

He kind of wants to argue the point, dispute the idea that he comes whenever she crooks her finger, but it doesn’t seem like the right time, not when she’s tugging him down to seal her mouth over his and sliding her hands over his back beneath his t-shirt. 

And that’s before she hikes a leg up over his hip and pulls him in so he’s completely crushed against her. He rubs his hard-on against her thigh shamelessly because obviously neither of them is feeling particularly patient so there’s nothing to hide. She slides her leg back against him with just the right amount of pressure, even as she manages to shove his shirt all the way up and off. 

As much as he wants to get her out of her underwear, he doesn’t want to stop kissing her either, so he blindly pushes at the cup of her bra, shoving the silky material side so he can rub a thumb against her nipple, which sends her hips surging against his, leaves her moaning into his mouth, and drives her to scrape her own fingers over his chest until he is so achingly hard that all of his higher brain functions grind to a dizzying halt.

So it’s pure instinct that has him sliding down so he can nuzzle his way into her cleavage. He moves the rest of her bra out of the way and maps his way across her creamy skin with his lips and tongue, and she tastes so sweet, like soap and water, and he licks at the tip of her breast until she grabs handfuls of his hair and groans at the ceiling. 

He moves lower, tracing a circle around her navel , a line down to her underwear. Her hips jerk upward again, nearly smothering him for a minute, and she digs her nails into the table beside her thigh, scratching at the felt.

“Please,” she moans, as his fingers toy with the elastic of her panties, snapping it against her skin to make her jump again. “Don’t just…”

He doesn’t know what she’s going to say because her voice fades as he starts to slide her underwear off. She lifts her hips again to help, but he still has to sit up to free them from her ankles. She follows him up, reaching for his belt and pulling his pants open in what has to be a new world record. He tries to get a condom out of his wallet just as fast -- and Annie’s always telling him that he shouldn’t carry them in wallet because of all the wear and tear but he’s betting that she’s pretty happy that he’s got one handy right about now.

She massages his shoulders as he rolls on the condom, but as soon as he’s done, she falls back on the table, pulling him back down with her. She covers his mouth with hers again, and he sinks into the kiss, biting at her lip, sliding his tongue against hers, even as he works a hand between her legs. She’s already so hot and slick, but he rubs his thumb over her clit until her thighs fall open and he presses inside her, sliding all the way home. 

Her fingers scratch at his back, her toes curl against his jean-covered legs, and she whimpers in his ear, a strangely loud sound in the dark, empty bar. 

He waits for a minute, trying to catch his breath before he starts to move. He props himself up on his forearms, though, so he’s got better leverage. Annie throws her head back, but he can see that her eyes are closed as she moans. The sweat that glistens along her throat and collarbones tempts him, so he licks it away as he finally moves, as slow as he possibly can. 

“Is this right?” he asks. “Is this living up to the fantasy?”

He’s kind of being a jerk, sure, but he can’t help himself -- it’s too much fun.

Her eyes flutter open and she glares up at him, even as she bites her lip when he picks up the pace. “You don’t talk as much in my fantasies.”

He chuckles, and it must do something for her, because she groans, digging her nails into his shoulders like she can’t quite control herself. 

When she wraps her legs around his waist, though, he loses it himself. Around them, the pool balls start to roll, banging against the table’s edges and nudging against his forearms and her shoulder. She reaches down between them, touching herself in that sure, practiced way that still kind of amazes him, and he can feel her fingertips brush against his dick every time he slides back inside, and it drives him crazy. 

“Jeff,” she moans. “Just a little…”

Somehow, he manages to move even faster, harder and deeper and better, and he feels Annie tensing around him, holding him tighter and scratching at his back desperately. Distantly, he thinks he hears a strange creaking sound, but it’s fuzzy and muddled so it seems very far away, maybe out on the street -- and he’s about to come so who the fuck cares what it is?

Annie gasps into his ear and she’s coming, with her head thrashing back and forth on the felt and her hand crushed between them. He drives into her one last time and then he’s coming too, heat mainlining through his veins like the best kind of fever -- and it’s one hell of an orgasm because he could swear that he feels the earth actually fucking move and hears a crashing sound that rivals the fucking Big Bang.

Maybe he blacks out for a second too, because the next thing he knows, his face is pressed to the damp curve of Annie’s neck and she’s hitting his back impatiently. 

“Jeff! Jeff, get up!”

He chuckles weakly, feeling completely out of breath and energy. “I had no idea you had such good ideas.” He pauses, reconsidering. “Well, sex ideas. I knew your others ideas were usually pretty sound.”

She shoves at his shoulder again, and he lifts himself off of her a little so he’s not completely suffocating her.

“What are we going to tell Britta?” she demands.

“I didn’t think we would tell Britta,” he says with a smirk. “But if you want to brag about this, go ahead.”

“No, dummy!” She pushes him off of her completely and he rolls weakly onto his side. “About the table!”

That’s when he finally realizes that the table is kind of on a slant, but his mind is still plenty hazy so it takes a few seconds before he can put together that the creaking sound, the earth-moving feeling, and the crash at the end was actually one of the pool table’s legs breaking under their combined weight.

Still, he only shrugs. “We won’t tell her anything. I bet no one notices.” 

“It’s all lopsided, Jeff! Of course someone’ll notice.”

“In this dump? Come on.”

She sits up, gingerly scooting her way to the edge of the table so she can hop off. She bends to retrieve her discarded dress and underwear and starts to dress. He finally works up enough energy to push himself off the table, which rattles precariously as his weight shifts. He cleans himself up and zips his jeans, but Annie still isn’t looking at him. 

She can’t honestly be that upset about the stupid table leg -- not when they just had some of the hottest sex ever. She finally glances up at him, still looking flushed and sweaty and unbelievably sexy.

“You really don’t think they’ll notice?” she asks.

He snags his t-shirt from the floor and shakes his head. “No. And when they finally do, they’ll probably think it’s been like that for a while.”

She appraises the table for a moment, tilting her head to consider it from different angles, but eventually nods. And because she seems a little less panicked, he can’t help pressing his luck. 

“So,” he says, pulling his shirt over his head. “How did this compare to the fantasy?”

She finishes smoothing her hair and gifts him with a sly smile. “It blew it out of the water,” she declares. She steps into him, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Like I said, I’ve trained you pretty well.”

He doesn't bother arguing.


	8. That Funny Feeling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Do you want me to stop?" from bethanyactually

“I forgot something. Be right back!”

Annie darts out of the bedroom, hair flying behind her, and he fights the urge to call her back on the spot.

It would be seriously stupid to feel anxious right now, especially when he can bench press nearly 375 pounds these days and her bed frame is made of nothing more than a few rusting bars of iron that would probably crumble if he tapped his fingers against them the right way and she’s used the ridiculously bright purple terry cloth sash from her robe and a gauzy polka dotted scarf to actually tie his hands to it -- so really, if he wanted to, he could probably free himself in a matter of minutes.

Seconds, actually.

When he tests the ties, though, they barely move at all -- which makes sense because he’s willing to bet that Annie’s resume includes an impressive stint in Girl Scouts, where she learned how to tie knots that never unravel and survive in the wilderness indefinitely with nothing more than a few sticks, a rock, and a pocket knife. 

If she wants him to stay put, he’s staying put.

He can hear her moving around in the kitchen, opening cabinets, rooting around in the fridge and happily humming some catchy Taylor Swift song, and he wonders what the hell she’s up to. The picture doesn’t become much clearer when she finally strolls back into the room, smiling slyly and balancing a small bowl in one hand -- she’s wearing nothing but his shirt, barely buttoned at her middle to keep it on, and her hair’s a mess from his fingers combing through it, and honestly, it’s kind of one of those pinch-me moments for him because he still can’t believe that he’s allowed to have anything like this in his life.

Annie stops at the foot of the bed, tilting her head thoughtfully. 

“You look really good like this, you know,” she says, her eyes slowly moving over him like she’s taking a mental picture -- and he can’t really blame her because nearly naked is a seriously good look for him. He’ll take her word for it that being tied to a bed only makes it better.

“When don’t I?” he says, with more arrogance than is probably wise considering his wrists are bound with terry cloth and silk.

Predictably, she rolls her eyes. “Maybe I should find another scarf and gag you.”

“How did I let you talk me into this again?” he asks, only half serious. 

Annie smirks, as smug and pleased as he’s ever seen her, and he’s got to admit -- it’s a serious turn-on, enough that he squirms a little against her demure floral print sheets.

“I promised you could do it to me next time,” she reminds him.

He nods. “I knew I had a good reason.”

She climbs onto the bed, straddling his lap so she can sit back on thighs. She still has the mysterious bowl in her hand, but he can’t see any better what’s inside -- and a moment later, he doesn’t really give a fuck because she shifts forward, rubbing against him with purpose, and the cotton of his briefs is fairly thin so the friction is just enough to make him close his eyes and exhale raggedly. Annie laughs a little and slides back onto his thighs again. He hears something clink against the side of the bowl, and he opens his eyes, to find her grinning at him in a sure, sexy way.

“Okay,” he says, still a little breathless. “What’s in the bowl?”

Her smile widens and she swivels her wrist, spinning the bowl almost theatrically. Then she reaches in with her free hand and slowly lifts out an ice cube, which drips a bit over her fingers as she holds it up for him to get a better look. A drop of water splashes onto his stomach, and he flinches at the unexpected cold.

“Annie,” he laughs. “Hold on a sec. I’m not really--”

“Weren’t you the one complaining about my crappy air conditioning earlier?” she asks pointedly. “So I thought I’d help you cool off...” She licks at her wrist where the ice cube’s started to drip, her eyes fixed on his the entire time. 

“Yeah, I really don’t think this is gonna cool me off.” He licks at his lip, almost mimicking her, and glances over at her open bedroom door. “You’re sure Britta’s not gonna come home?”

Annie smirks, eyes glimmering like the ice in her hand. “Somehow, I don’t think she’d be scandalized by this,” she snarks. “But she’s in Pueblo for the night. At a concert.”

She sets the bowl down on the bed next to his hip and leans in, dragging the ice cube along his lower lip. He shivers at the feel of it, as it drips down his chin, over his neck, and down his shoulder. Annie brings the ice up to her own mouth, letting it slip inside, and then she swoops in to kiss him -- and it’s the strangest, best sensation, because her mouth is warm, but also cold and smooth from the ice. She tastes so crisp and clean that he wants to drink from her forever, but then she’s pressing the cube into his mouth with her tongue and pulling back to grin down at him. 

The ice melts on his tongue, and fuck, it’s something he’s felt countless times before, but it burns through his body like a fever. 

Annie sits up, settling her weight back over his hips. Her borrowed shirt slips off her shoulder, just hinting at the perfect, pale curve of her breast as she reaches into the bowl for a fresh piece of ice. His entire body tenses in anticipation, like his nerve endings already know exactly how good it’s going to feel, so when she touches the ice to his skin, gliding it over his throat, collar bones, and the center of his chest, his moan is embarrassingly loud.

It’s not hard to guess what’s coming next when her smile goes all naughty, but he’s still caught off-guard somehow when she rubs the ice right against his nipple. His hips jump, nearly knocking her off the bed, and he curses under his breath. But Annie only laughs as she moves the cube to the other side, and he shivers even as the heat spreads through his body.

And that’s before she leans in close and blows against his skin and everything goes hazy and hot.

“Fuck, Annie,” he groans, and he can’t keep his eyes open any longer. “You’re an evil genius...”

He can feel her grin against his chest as she licks the water there away, and the clash between the cold of the ice and the heat of her mouth blows his fucking mind and sends all of the blood in his body rushing straight to his dick. He twists against the mattress, pulling at his ties without even meaning to.

“You love it,” she purrs -- and even if he wasn’t completely breathless and mindless at the moment, there wouldn’t be any way to argue with her. 

She trails the next ice cube down his stomach, moving it so slowly that he’s panting out every breath he takes. She circles it around his belly button, letting it melt against his skin in a pool that drips down over his hip -- and then her mouth is there again, blowing and licking at his skin, and she may be rubbing him down with ice but he feels himself sweating everywhere as he practically thrashes under her.

“Shit,” he hisses. “You’re killing me here.”

When she giggles, it’s a strangely innocent sound, considering the way she’s torturing him. He hears her reach into the bowl again, and this time, she traces the ice along the waistband of his boxer briefs, where his skin is especially sensitive. She moves the cube slowly and teasingly, wetting the fabric and watching at him with a gleam in her eyes that says she’s got him right where she wants him. 

Her fingers toy with the elastic edge, snapping it against his skin and letting the ice drift just below, where he feels it drip down over his erection -- but the effect is nothing like a cold shower, because it only makes him hotter and harder and ready to pull her bed frame apart to get his hands on her. 

Annie shifts to knees, sliding between his legs so she can tug his underwear off. He is hard as a fucking rock and she wraps her hand around him, pumping his erection a couple of times -- she probably thinks she’s taking pity on him, helping to take the edge off a little, but really, it only makes things so much worse. Her fingers are still cold and wet from the ice, so he feels every stroke a little more than usual and he thinks he could come at any moment. He plants his feet flat against the bed and pushes up into her hand, unable to stop himself. 

“Slow down,” she whispers, and it seems like she’s speaking to herself as much as to him because she loosens her grip just a bit. 

And then there’s the sound of ice clinking against the side of the bowl again and he can see the fresh piece glistening between her fingers and he knows exactly what she’s about to do with it -- and he wants her to do, even if he’s pretty sure that it might kill him.

“Oh, God,” he groans, and it’s embarrassing how needy he sounds. “Annie, I can’t…”

She hesitates, head tilted thoughtfully. “Do you want me to stop?”

He takes a deep breath, trying to slow his racing heart, and shakes his head. 

So she crouches between his spread thighs and curls her fist around the base of his cock and slowly brings the ice to it, rubbing the cube along his length gently, but it’s enough to make him drive his hips up almost frantically and curse at the ceiling.

And once again, she must be feeling compassionate, because without any warning, she practically swallows him whole, and the heat of her mouth after the cold of the ice is so intense that it nearly has him sobbing.

“Oh, fuck,” he grits out, as she moves her lips to the tip and then all the way back to her fist again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

She slides him out of his mouth and smiles. “Good?”

“So fucking good,” he slurs.

She draws the ice over his erection again and then her mouth is back, all warm and teasing, and he’s curling his fists around the ties that keep him pinned in place and maybe it’s a good thing that they’re there because he doesn’t think he’d be able to stay still otherwise. As it is, he pulls against them, trying to thrust into her mouth.

Annie laughs, humming around his dick, which always drives him crazy, and he’d probably laugh too -- because it’s pretty stupid to think he has any control here -- but his lack of breath just doesn’t make it possible. She lets him fall out of her mouth again and bites at his hip as she slides her fist along his erection.

“Still think it’s hot in here?” she teases. 

Somehow, he manages a rusty laugh. “As I predicted … you’ve only made it much, much worse.”

She lifts her shoulder coyly, failing entirely at looking innocent, and reaches past him toward the nightstand for a condom. Her fingers are still wet, so it takes her a minute to rip the package open and roll it on him, but then she curls her hand around the base of his cock to hold him steady and sinks over him in one deliriously fast, smooth stroke that has him seeing white-hot stars. 

A breath trembles out of her and she tosses her head back -- and if he had free use of his hands, he’d be reaching for her hips right now, setting a pace that would have them both halfway to delirium in a matter of seconds.

But apparently Annie isn’t in a hurry.

So she stays mostly still, just wiggling a little to work herself out of his shirt without undoing any of the buttons. He winds up appreciating her foresight, though, because it falls to her waist so when she does finally start moving a few seconds later, her breasts, bouncing in the most amazing way, are on full display. He wishes he could sit up and touch and taste them, but he’s completely at her mercy and there’s something so fucking hot about that, which is starting to convince him that this is the best night of his life. 

She finally starts to pick up the pace, and he works with her as much as he can with his hands tied to the bed, trying to meet her thrust for thrust. When she adds the little hip swirl thing that he loves, though, he’s pretty sure he’s going to go cross-eyed with pleasure, so he closes his eyes and bites his lip to try to keep quiet. 

But then he hears the damn ice rattling around in the bowl again, and he opens his eyes expecting to see Annie with a cube in hand, poised to torment him again -- but instead, she’s circling the ice over her breast, around her nipple, and he drives his hips up against her with no finesse at all, like he can’t help himself, because fuck, it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

Until a second later, when she slides the ice down her stomach and between her legs, her hand disappearing under the bunched material of his shirt at her hips.

Still, he knows the exact moment that it touches her clit because she practically jumps, falling forward a little so she has to brace herself with a hand on his stomach. She drops the ice and it falls onto his thigh, melting over his skin almost on contact. 

For a second, he can’t help wondering how she came up with this, where she learned it, but the few brain cells that are still working for him quickly clue him into the fact that it’s a train of thought that will lead nowhere good.

So instead, he groans her name again, getting her attention even though her hand’s still moving between her legs. She’s flushed and sweaty, but smiles almost fondly at him, and he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind, the thought that’s been circling through his head all night, all week, since she got off the plane back in Colorado almost two months ago.

“I love you.”

She laughs, still riding him at a smooth, brisk pace. “Of course you do.”

“No,” he starts to say, because she’s clearly not taking him seriously and for some reason, this suddenly matters -- even if they’re in the middle of the hottest sex that anyone’s ever had, anywhere in the world, at any time in history. “That’s not what I--”

But she sinks down over him again, grinding against him with determination, and she scrapes her nails over his stomach, and he can feel her starting to tighten around him. She throws her head back and lets out a deep, throaty moan that seems to erupt from the deepest part of her, and she rotates her hips again, clenching around him even tighter -- and that’s it, game over. 

He comes grunting her name and tugging hard enough at the ties that he thinks her headboard is about to crash to the floor in pieces.

It’s good luck, he supposes, that it’s not the bed that collapses, but Annie, who belly-flops onto his chest without any warning. He can’t really blame her, though -- they’re both worn out, panting hard as they try to catch their breath. She goes eerily still after a few seconds, just as the ache in his arms really starts to register, and he kind of worries that she’s fallen asleep on him.

“Annie,” he says, shifting under her. “A little help here? My arms are killing me.”

She springs up like her alarm’s gone off. “Sorry, sorry!” She leans over him, going to work on the knots, but her fingers must be a little numb from the ice because it takes her a few tries to get them loose.

When his arms are free, he pushes up against the pillows and moves them around a little to work out the stiffness. She helps by massaging each one, her fingers digging slowly and carefully into the muscles until they feel nice and loose.

“Better?” she asks.

He nods, and it’s her smile, sleepy, sexy, and sheepish all at once, that gives him the energy to roll her under him so he can kiss her, as slowly and deeply as he likes. She sighs into his mouth, and it’s such a sweet, tender, hopeful kind of sound that he sinks even deeper into the kiss, trying to drink it all in. 

“Hey,” he whispers, when they drift apart. “I love you. And not just because you’re a sex goddess who’ll tie me to her bed to have her wicked way with me.”

She grins, nuzzling against his cheek. “But that helps, right?”

He shrugs. “A little. But in all fairness, I loved you for a long time when sex wasn’t even on the table.”

She nods slowly. “That is true,” she says. “So I guess you really mean it.”

Her tone is light and teasing, so he nods back, grinning. “Kind of.”

“Me?” Annie drawls, the corner of her mouth twitching like she’s trying hard not to laugh. “I love you too, but mostly because of all the hot sex.”

He doesn’t even bother trying to hold in his laughter, and that gets her to give in too, so they giggle together like little kids in the middle of her messy bed. She hikes a leg over his hip, trying to roll them back over so she’s on top again, but he’s all loose-limbed and heavy at the moment so it’s a losing battle -- until he does it for her and she grins down at him like he’s just saved a bunch of puppies or babies from a burning building, and then she kisses him again, and there’s no confusion about how they feel for one another at all. 

Annie’s not like him, though -- she doesn’t think things can just go unsaid.

So later, when they’re both settled comfortably under the sheets and about to drift off, she rubs her hand over the arm he has slung around her waist, cuddling back even closer to him.

“Hey,” she whispers. “I really mean it too.”

She sounds painfully sincerely, but he smiles into the curve of her neck. “But the hot sex helps, right?”

She laughs, low and sleepy. “It definitely doesn’t hurt.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to prompt me over on Tumblr. I'm hello-wright-or-wrong.


End file.
